In the middle of February, Chef is going to Michigan, then Wyoming, then Alaska. He’ll be gone for quite a while, so he has a lot of work to do so that all his ice sculptures are ready for that time. He has people to deliver, but not to carve. Chef has something like forty-four sculptures to carve in about three weeks.
So he called in some help. Jon is a recent culinary school graduate who also carves ice. He just joined the Marines, but he’s got some time before he ships out in July. He agreed to come down from Michigan for a few days to help Chef carve. He arrived Monday evening and spent all day with Chef on Tuesday and Wednesday, carving.
Tuesday, I got off work at 5:00 and wondered what the plan was for dinner for these two guys who would undoubtedly be hungry after a day of physical work. I called Chef, and he didn’t have any ideas. “Well,” I said, “I’ll go to the Y for a quick workout, run home to get the grocery money, and then go back to the store for a rotisserie chicken. I’ll make some potatoes and vegetables to go with it.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “We’ll be home around 6:00, I think.”
Wait. I finished work at 5:00, and if they were coming back at 6:00, that left me only an hour to work out, run the errands, and prepare dinner. That was not going to work.
I would have to skip my workout.
Saturday morning, I ran and took my Pilates class. Sunday I took the dogs for a walk. Monday was a beautifully sunny day that would have been perfect for a run if I hadn’t had to get home and help with the Monday Meal. Tuesday I was really looking forward to a good run.
But it was not to be. Sometimes you gotta take care of your man.
Much to the dismay of my protesting legs who were crying and whining for activity, I skipped the gym. I went to the grocery and then went home, stuck the chicken in the oven to keep warm, made some garlic rosemary mashed potatoes and cooked up some frozen asparagus.
And then I waited.
The guys didn’t get home at 6:00. Or 6:30. They didn’t walk in the door until about 7:00.
My legs were pouting. “We could have gone for a run!”
“We will go tomorrow,” I said. “Quit yer bellyaching.”
But I realized: I’m addicted.
There are worse things to be addicted to, for sure, so I’m okay being addicted to exercise.