The dogs would like you to know that yes, we still go to the forest and the beach and agility run our asses off every single day.

I present this to you, as proof, my exercise schedule at the gym.

Monday morning, pre-sunrise. Bootcamp class with Bill.
Bill is like a cheerleader whose ex sometimes texts him on his iphone during squats who can swing his leg as high as his little tiny moustache face. He has us do many, many, many reps of many things and then we run or skip rope. Not like girls. Like fighters. Sometimes I am the fastest when we have to run out the door and to the street and around the parking lot, past the trash cans, and back inside. Although I have the sloppiest cores of the bunch.

Monday night, late. Yoga.
The teacher lives on my street and has small children and a Prius. He uses a yoga voice when he teaches that he doesn't use on the street, but I don't hold that against him because I am having clean, happy, yoga thoughts and breathing in the moment and at the end we lay down and pretend we are dead.

Wednesday morning, pre-sunrise. Bootcamp class with Bill, again.
More of the same. I am the oldest lady in the class. In the dark, I get into my kicky little gym outfit which consists of whatever t-shirt I was wearing last night and my trusty black sporty pants which I've had since the early '90s. Say what you will about overseas slave labor, Addidas has done something right with those sporty pants. My very young classmates all have expensive tights with flattering waistabands and calves and well shaped asses that I bet they don't even appreciate. Bitches. I now know how to jump rope and perhaps someday Bill will remember my name when he gives my laying on the floor panting self a high five.

Thursday night, driving so fast so I can make it home from work in time. Zumba.
I have a Zumba friend now, the littlest guy from the back of the class. He shakes my hand to introduce himself and his hand feels like a feather. I dance in the front row and the teacher wears a lot of pony tail holders in his hair. He has diamond earrings and a big tattoo of a Indian headdress on his arm. I shake my groove thing Beyonce hard and pretend I am drunk and dancing on float in a festival in some country where there are parrots.

Friday morning, pre-sunrise. Working Out.
I take my ipod and ride on machines that are like running with dogs except you are standing on a giant robot holding the handles and you never go anywhere. The dogs are sleeping at home and we will have another run in the outdoors when they wake up. I use heavy black dumbbells all on my own, for as long as I can bear for the good of biceps, triceps and lats. I do sit up things on a large ball that looks like a hoppity hop in the name of core. I watch the sunrise out the window, over the willow brush on the north side of the pond, listening to Black Mountain in my earphones. I never leave the gym without seeing someone I know, but I do not chat for long because I am Working Out.

Yes. There is still forest run. And beach. And dog agility. Hopefully the gym makes us faster and stronger and super hot in skinny jeans, someday in the future.