Besides jogging, now, I have also started taking the stairs to my office, like every beginner exercise book or In Shape article will tell you to do. Unfortunately, I do not work on the third floor. I work on the eleventh floor. And if you have ever tried to hike 11 flights of stairs (upward, people, UPWARD) then you know what an excellent workout I am getting every morning. And sometimes after lunch. Although I've noticed my lunchtime excursions have limited themselves to the break room, as opposed to one of the many nearby restaurants, having now put the “stairs only” restriction upon myself. See, I'm even lazy enough to cheat the system when I create the system.
In any case, at least once a day, those stairs make me more out of breath than a 30 minute jog will. Every morning I tell myself, “Come on, it's not the Matterhorn. It's a staircase.”
And then myself always goes, “But isn't there a cozy little tram you can ride up the Matterhorn?”
So I've been good, and while I cannot feel the results, yet, I feel less guilty about entering BBQ season.
The Funasaurus was away playing volleyball last night, so I decided to treat myself to a bubble bath. Because, um, yum.
The only downside to a bubble bath is that you must clean the bathtub, first. A chore which has led me to decide, “I don't really want a bath THAT badly,” on any number of occasions.
But it was long overdue for a cleaning anyway, so with the help of Sugar and Tatum, I scrubbed the heck out of the bathtub, rinsed thoroughly, and retrieved some bubble bath goo from the nether regions of under-the-sink while the tub filled up with copious amounts of unnecessary warm water.
Al Gore and Laurie David be damned. At least I recycle.
So I soaked in the tub for a good 40 minutes, at first being nervous about any remaining Lysol going up my bum, or sticking to my hair despite the OCD rinsing I gave each section of the tub. (I am a germaphobe who's scared of chemicals. It's been a tricky life.) Once I was sufficiently dehydrated and soggy all at the same time, I got out and curled up in bed. I do not remember the rest of the night, but I am all mushy and happy-feeling, today.
Maybe even too mushy for 11 flights of stairs...?
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8 comments:
11 flights? Yowza! You definitely deserved the bubble bath
Go you! It's much cheaper than buying a stairmaster.
The post bubble bath sleep is such a dreamy luxury.
I'm a bubble-bath slut. Water conservation be damned, it's the only thing that keeps me sane!
Upward, Princess, upward!
Keeping up with the exercise. You go girl.
Yes, I like to use terrible clichés.
Seriously, way to go with the exercise. First stop 11 flights of stairs. Next stop? A half-marathon. You can do it!
Seriously, think about it!
There are folks in my office who walk up 14 flights of stairs for the simple reason that they are afraid the elevators will kill them. For some reason, the elevators in my building like to drop people anywhere from 2 to 8 stories inexplicably, or stop with the floor of the elevator 6 inches below the frame. Government quailty.
Me, I take my chances. I think I'd rather die in a gory elevator accident than walk 14 flights of stairs 4 times a day.
Ah, I love it!
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