There is a class I really wanted to take last night, at 6:30. I helped Aaron get the kids fed, then dashed upstairs and changed into my gym clothes. Running back downstairs, I nursed the baby and ran out the door, in order to get there for the 6:30 class.
One problem. I got to the gym and it looked like a class was in progress. Weird, I thought. Then I realized, I didn’t really know what day it was. Since my phone was in the car, and no calendars were hanging anywhere, I had to do the worst thing. I had to ask what day it was. Oh, Tuesday? Great. The 6:30 class I wanted to take occurs on Wednesday. Yesterday was Tuesday. Not Wednesday.
Now there is a Tuesday class I take as well, but it’s at 7:15. Yeah, I got to the gym a little over an hour early. Let’s just say I got in a really good weights workout, and THEN did an hour or so of Zumba. I was very sore when I woke up. And I woke up at 2, 4 and 5am. Thanks kids. Thanks hips. Thanks Tuesday/Wednesday.
There is nothing worse than having to ask what day it is. Luckily the person I asked seemed very understanding. I suppose an extra hour of working out never hurt anyone. I worked so hard that I rewarded myself with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was delicious.
Tonight is the 6:30 class. It’s Wednesday today. I double checked.