Serious, schmerious

I spent 20 minutes on a cross-trainer this morning– that puts me even with last month’s workout time and it’s only the first day of the month… Wahoo!

Whilst I pumped my arms and legs like an infomercial candidate, I perused the row of TV screens mounted at the front of the gym.  One guy was promoting a very serious book about his personal revelations and insights (worthwhile, I’m sure, don’t get me wrong).  Another screen was, guess what? An infomercial, showing dramatic ab results from a contortionist machine and featuring testimonials about how life changing it was.  (Never mind flabby, pasty white me bouncing along next to the tan, abs-of-steel girls.  Gross.)  The next screen was Regis and Joy, with whomever exited Dancing with the Stars last night.  They were all extremely serious about the judges and being in love and all.  Ugh.  Why do we all take ourselves so seriously?  I mean, I’m worst of all– here I am blogging my every passing thought…

Lighten up, world!

  • It’s spring.  Really, it is!  There are leaves on the trees, blossoms on the bushes, and green baby grass shoots in the bare, muddy places.
  • Baseball is on TV every night.  (At bedtime, Quinn tells his daddy he wants to watch more “red soccer.”)
  • It’s time to go outside and play again!  People are out with baseball gloves, frisbees, lacrosse sticks.  Chloe has a track meet tonight.  Doesn’t it make you want to play something?

Whew.  Get a few endomorphins firing in my body and I’m soaring like a kite.  But I swear it’s hard not to go manic in New England when beautiful spring days hit.  It’s a biological response to light and heat deprivation for the last six months.  This is the reason people from here crowd into Fenway in triple-layer parkas in April, and the same reason every single ice cream place in the region has a line snaking out the door and down the street at any time of day or night from May to October.  It’s hard to figure why people don’t massively emigrate to happier climes, but I think it has something to do with this manic response.  The euphoria floods the brain with some amnesiac chemical that makes us forget how much we hate winter here.  I think it’s the same chemical that makes women forget how painful childbirth is.

Oh, but let’s stay away from “serious” analysis.  I’m going to go get a venti, iced Americano (yes, with an extra shot, Kelli!) and then I’m going to go play something.  Then I’ll fetch the kids from school and we’ll go play something together.  Want to come with us?

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