Confession

I have something to confess.

Sometimes… I’m just not in the mood. In fact, lately it’s the very last thing I want to do at night. I prefer to just get it over with quickly, first thing in the morning, you know? And it’s not just me. Roger doesn’t feel like doing it either. We try to muster some enthusiasm, for the benefit of the other, but in truth – we both know it’s an act. Neither of us is in the mood. And yet we know it’s important, all the books and magazines say so. We know that we should do it, we just don’t want to. But we do…occasionally anyway.

I’m talking about exercise, of course.

This past Monday I was not in the mood. I pick Roger up from work and silently will him to say he doesn’t feel like going to the gym. If he says it, I certainly won't argue, but I'm not going to be the one to say it first. But he says nothing, so I drive to Planet Fitness as planned.

The gym is packed, but I manage to find a parking space at the back. We slowly get out of the car, and I pop the trunk open. We reach in for our bags; mine feels like lead.

“Do you have a padlock?” Roger asks.
“No, YOU took my lock last week.” I say, annoyed. (What can I say? The gym makes me grouchy.)

Roger shakes his head. “But I told you – they had to cut it off the locker. The stupid key wouldn’t work.”

I roll my eyes, remembering the ridiculous story. We’re standing there with the trunk open, staring at each other like idiots. It’s not that big of a problem really. We simply have to go inside, change clothes, and then one of us will have to bring the bags back to the car before going back inside to work out. Of course, being parked in Antarctica makes the task slightly irritating, but hey, we’re here for exercise, right?

“This is such a pain.” Roger slams the trunk shut. He’s right. It is a pain (especially since he will most certainly be the one returning to the car with the bags!).

“Let’s just change in the car,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. A childhood of shuffling between school and dance class and cheerleading practice and play rehearsal has made me a semi-expert at changing clothes in the car.

Roger laughs before he realizes I’m serious. “Robyn, there are a gazillion people walking around this parking lot.”

“It’s fine,” I say, opening the door to the back seat. Roger laughs nervously and climbs in the back with me. I start to take off my shirt, but Roger keeps stopping me because he thinks someone is headed our way. Finally I tell him to shut up and change, which we somehow manage to do without prolonged exposure. A few people walk by and give us odd looks – we are, after all, sitting in the back seat of a parked car – but no one gets a good look at anything indecent. We’re giggling as we get out of the car.

We start the trek across the parking lot, debating if we should do weights or cardio. (I want to do the elliptical machine but Roger wants to do weights, and for some reason, neither of us feels that we can do either without the other by our sides.) We’re still bickering when I realize that I have left my Polar watch in the car. Roger says it doesn’t matter, but see, my Polar watch tracks my progress and counts the calories I’ve burned, and well, I love it. And the way I see it, if my Polar watch doesn’t know I’ve worked out, then it can’t update my little chart on the web, so it’s almost as if I haven’t worked out at all, so what's the point? After a little more whining, we head back to the car to get the watch.

The watch retrieved, we begin the walk across the parking lot once more. We’re almost to the door of the gym, and I have ceded to Roger’s request to do weights instead of cardio when I realize that we don’t have "sweat towels." It’s kind of a new policy. If you’re in the gym without a towel they can throw you out. Well, so the sign says anyway. I’ve never seen anyone tossed out or anything, but you know me – I’m no rebel.

“Roger, we have to go back for the towels.”
Roger stares at me in disbelief. “This is ridiculous.”
“But it’s the rule,” I say, whining again.

Without a word he turns around and we head back to the car. We cross the parking lot in silence. I unlock the car with the remote, but instead of getting a towel from the back seat, Roger climbs into the passenger seat and puts on his seat belt. I open the back seat and reach for a towel.

“Roger, come on,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“We’re going home,” he declares sternly, though I can tell he’s stifling a giggle as well. “I’m serious; it’s a sign.”

“We are not that pathetic,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “We’re already here; we’re dressed. We’re going in.”

“I’m not working out.”
“Well, I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Well, I am.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”

He may have been bluffing, I’m not sure, but I didn’t call him out on it. I think he could sense my lack of conviction. I walk around to the driver’s side and climb in the car, resigned to the sweet defeat.

We drive home in silence. I’m not sure if I want to kill him or kiss him. We stop at a red light; I glance over at him and can’t help but smile at my partner in crime.

I confess, this is why I got married.

For someone to skip the gym with. For someone to tell me it’s okay to leave the dishes in the sink sometimes or stay in bed all day. Someone who will join me in polishing off the carton of ice cream or ordering take out three nights in a row. Someone to help me relax a little and remind me not to be so hard on myself. Someone to make me laugh when I feel like screaming. This is why I got married…
Well, maybe it’s not the reason I got married, but it’s the reason I married Roger. He has this magical ability to make everything fun.

And for that, I’m always in the mood.