Yesterday when I got home from work, I was determined to get back into my work-out routine.  Ever since running the race on Saturday, I’ve been a total bum.  The weather has been totally hit-or-miss (read: raining or miserably humid) and I’ve been lazy.  But Thursday! Thursday I was going to fix all of that!  I had a plan.  That plan was to put on my running garb and get out the door immediately after getting home from work.  I thought that if I could get out and do the exercise before I got sucked in by the unstoppable TV/Relaxation/Red Wine Vortex that keeps pulling me in and draining me of all my ambition every night, perhaps I’d have a chance at falling back into my healthy routine.

The rest of this post is after the jump.  (And I know you all know I only put jumps in my posts when I talk about one particular subject matter. Ahem.)

Then I got home from work.  To find Zack napping on the couch.

Turns out, the vortex is much stronger than I had originally supposed.  Also: I had not prepared myself to resist couch snuggling.

So I set down all my stuff, wandered around the house for a second, then found myself hanging out on the couch with Zack, watching a train get parted out for scrap metal on National Geographic.  Just about the time that they finished scrapping the train, I found my will power again.  I was peeling myself off the couch to change into my work out clothes when Zack stood up and made a declaration.

He declared that it was sexy time.

I was all, SEXY TIME?  I was supposed to worrrk ouuuutt and wwaaah waaaah and I’m neevvverrr going to get back into my routttinnnee if we do seeeexy time right noooow.  There were vowels all over the place.  And still, he was like, “Yeah. Sexy Time,” as he lifted me from the couch and deposited me on the nearest horizontal surface with springs.

Like I said though, I had really found my will power.  I was going to run, dammit, even if that meant ditching my husband’s attempt at some Afternoon Delight Sexy Time.

So after he hopped on the bed, jazzed by the fact that he’d remembered to plug in some Mood Lighting, he crawled over to me and was all, “Hey there.”
And I was like, “Hey there back.”
And he was all, “You like those lights?”
And I was like, “Yeah.  I love them.”  Then I looked him in the eyes and said the one phrase that I knew would stop him in his tracks. “Zack,” I said, “let’s make a baby.”

Stunned, he fell over as if he’d just been blasted with a shot gun. The wind gone from his sails; the light gone from his eyes.  I realized that perhaps I’d overshot my goal a twee bit.  I didn’t want to get distracted from my running ambitions, true, but I also didn’t want to emotionally scar my husband for life.  So I backtracked.  I backtracked for fear that Zack would never have the desire to have Sexy Time with me ever again because he was going to have some version of PTSD every time  he remembered me uttering the most terrible phrase he could ever imagine me saying.  “Let’s Make a Baby?” he kept muttering to himself over and over as I, giggling through my apologies, assured him again and again that I was JUST KIDDING. JOKES. I GOT JOKES.

Of course, because fate is a cruel mistress with a sense of humor, the only way I was able to soothe his rattled nerves was by giving him what he’d been asking for* in the first place.  But, you know, with protective measures fully in place.

(*Some Sexy Time, followed by a long nap, turned out to be exactly what I needed.  So sure, I had chips and red wine for dinner and sure my health goals for this week have totally been shot to hell, but who really cares about that?  I got sexy time and sleep.  Running can always wait.)