This week has rough. Mark is now training at 6:30am, which means that I now have to workout at 5:30 am so that I am back from my run in time to be home (for the baby) before Mark leaves at 6:20. Needless to say that I am pooped by about 9am. On Monday when I tried to call Mark at about that time to complain about how tired I was I got no answer. I called again at 10am. Still no answer. Finally, around lunch time, Mark picked up. "Hello?!" I said only to hear, "Ugh... I feel like $&#*." I almost went directly into panic mode-car accident? Flu? Or something worse?
Nope. Weight room. Mark started back to weights this week and began a new program. Metabolic lifting. Huh? Aerobic, fast-paced, never-a-rest type of lifting. He was done (like the Thanksgiving turkey kind of done).
Monday night at dinner he looked at me and said, "That was really hard," with a pouty look on his face.
Oh... is our everyday Olympian tired?
So, I leaned forward, looked right into his eyes as if I were going to say something sweet, nurturing or encouraging and instead I said...
"... and I thought winning an individual Olympic gold medal was going to be easy..."
He smiled, picked up his fork and went back to his dinner. I, on the other hand, laughed out loud.