Shopping is exercise, right?

I am going to be a single mom this next week. It's more work for me, but if I'm honest, sometimes I like it. Oh, I don't necessarily like being responsible for everything, but I do like the quiet in the evenings. I also like getting all the pillows without having to hear anyone whine that they don't have anything to put their head on.

David is doing Cycle Oregon. For a whole week he gets to pretend he's Lance Armstrong, balance his butt on a tiny bike seat, and pedal his little heart out. But the fun doesn't stop there. Once he's done riding all day, he gets to sleep in the great outdoors. Wow, I can't think of a better way to spend my time: pedaling all day, then sleeping on rocks. I was invited, but I said no. I'll suffer at home with my pillows, thank you very much.

David is an athlete. Did I mention that? He also likes to run, but no measly 5K or 12K for him. Oh, no, he likes to run marathons and half marathons. He says half marathons are the perfect race. I, of course, nod politely. But seriously, running 13 miles is the perfect race? Thirteen miles is a loooooong way if you're using your feet to cover that distance. I tell him he could go a lot faster in a car, or even a bike, with the added benefit of not hurting so much at the end, but he just shakes his head at me.

I obviously do not get the point of running. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than run. It wouldn't be any more painful, but it would be over more quickly. My favorite athletic activity is reading books. You can really work up a sweat turning pages fast, but at least those pages provide you with a nice breeze. And the only marathon I would consider taking part in would have to have the word "shopping" in it.

So now an elite athlete is stuck with a comfortably rounded couch potato like me. But I would contend it wasn't by design. In fact, I was sold a bill of goods, married under false pretenses. When I first met my future husband, his favorite activity was eating a dozen doughnuts and reading the newspaper on a Sunday morning. A dozen doughnuts . . . and he wouldn't share with me. If I begged, he'd let me pick one. If it was a small one. And he was a physics geek. So you tell me, how was I supposed to know that inside this doughnut-loving science guy was an athlete lurking, just waiting to pounce?