Ok back to the work out. I snuck out this morning...very early. Greg was so peaceful lying there. I ever so gingerly slid one limb and then the other off the crisp sheets and onto the cool floor. Slowly, quietly I slid into my running gear. Sneakily I tip toed down the stairs avoiding every creak. Finally out the door and onto the golden sun kissed street. It was like a private club. All the runners had the same cheshire cat smirk knowingly capturing the golden glow of the start of the day.
I ran and I ran and I ran. It felt good. It felt healthy. I felt alive. Finally after 45 minutes I forced myself to stop. How can something so liberating, so adrenaline rushing, such escapism be bad for baby? This is harder than I thought. Maybe I am completely obsessed with work and workouts and efficiency. But this morning, it felt great. The glow of a run, the glow of sex, the glow of wine. How bad can it be?
