Yesterday was the spousal unit's second annual 50th birthday. Last year, thanks to my three loyal readers, he was crowned Google's Mr. Wangitude.

He's still getting over the trauma.

About a month ago he took me aside and while the word "threatened" might be a tad strong, he most definitely intimated that There Would Be Consequences if I pulled a similar stunt on him this year. So we had a very quiet day the highlight of which was his favourite supper--homemade pancakes, topped with maple syrup and fruit, with a side of sausages.

I know. The man is so unbelievably low maintenance that it's scary. Guess I should count my blessings, eh?

There was an insanely young, freshly in lub couple at my gym today. Lots of giggling, hand holding, tender glances. I couldn't help but feel a bit wistful as I watched them.

It must be wonderful to be in the bright, shiny new stage of love, the part where you haven't had time to make mistakes yet or to need forgiveness.

The part where bodily functions don't exist, bedhead is still cute and endearing, and omigawd neither of you ever leaves a puddle of drool on the pillow, let alone snores.

Yeah. It must be wonderful.

If I scrunch my eyes closed really hard and concentrate with all my might I can almost go way back enough to remember how it was when the spousal unit and I were in that stage, back when we were teenagers. I'm not so stupid that I don't realize how wonderful it is that someone has been willing to stick by me for over 30 years now. Believe me, I'm very grateful that he still loves me for exactly who I am, that he sees me without illusions and accepts me, uh, Charming Quirks and all.

I'm not so mature, though, that there aren't days like today when I feel envy for the giddiness of New Lub.

When do things get simple? When? Huh? HUH?

Speaking of the gym (segues so smoove You Can't Believe It's Not Butter) my current workout regime can be neatly summed up in one word: brutal. I'm still only spending an hour lifting weights, but by the time I'm done the way I'm going at it leaves me wanting to crawl off to a dark corner and suck my thumb while whimpering softly.

See, I read on the Mayo Clinic web site that you don't need to do more than 8 to 12 reps of any exercise as long as you take it to failure. The key is that you have to push yourself to the wall.

So instead of doing six distinct exercises for the classic three sets of 10-12 reps, last week I got the other trainer to set up a new workout that includes 10 to 15 exercises taken to failure by 12 reps or less. He's skeptical about this and watching my results with interest. I, of course, am dizzy with excitement because I'm Being A Trail Blazer At My Gym.

Yes, my life is that scintillating.

Today was arms, shoulders, and abs day. By the end of it my arms were completely and utterly toasted, my shoulders were trying secede from my body and any time anyone made me laugh my abs hurt. Yes, yes I pay people to devise cunning ways for me to torture myself.

We all have our needs.

On my way home from the gym I stopped in at the grocery store across from the gym and bought a half gallon of milk because we were almost out. When I pulled up to the sleepy little Canadian Customs crossing for my village, I rolled down the window of my car and told the officer I'd been working out at the gym and declared the milk.

I went to lift the bag containing the milk from the floor of my car to show it to him and my arm was so toasted that I Could Not Lift The Milk Up. Oh, but I tugged. Noodle arm. I had noodle arm. Finally, I had a brain storm and with two hands managed to lift up that carton of milk for his inspection.

"As you can see, this gym thing is really working out for me," I deadpanned. He cracked up and waved me through.

I love it when I make them laugh.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 348.46 miles.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers