Why I Haven't Been to the Gym, Although I Truly Should Go

It's pouring outside. Travis and I grimace and hesitate for a moment, but our combined resolve cannot be broken so easily or so soon. We open our umbrellas and begin the ten minute walk to the gym. Normally this is a nice thing, a bit of a brisk beginning to time on the treadmill or the weight bench. The rain is really coming down hard, though, and within minutes our pantlegs are soaked. "My feet are getting wet," Travis complains. "I don't even want to work out anymore. Let's go home." I tell him that no, that we can do it, we're halfway there! We continue.

By the time we get to the gym, my feet are soaked and cold. I hold my umbrella tighter to my head, to keep the water from splashing any further. I look up at the gym, placing my foot on the curb, and slip suddenly. I fall to the ground on my hands and knees, and my poor Guggenheim Bilbao umbrella folds in on itself and snaps in two. My knees are bleeding and my hands are sore and red.

This is a sign from God. "I'm going home." I spend the next ten minutes not on the treadmill, not on the weight bench, but walking home in the pouring rain. Really, isn't that exercise enough?