Let's exercise tomorrow rather

.
So it's here. 

Winter, I mean.
Rather annoying really, because I had just started exercising…. Again. 

Well kind of. 

You see, Mrs Ed and I are now practically 'empty nesters':- The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is studying (girls) in Cape Town and the MCM (Money Consuming Machine) is boarding at school, though she still graces us with her presence and laundry at weekends.  So…. With a little more time on our hands we have made THE decision. You know the one:-
The Better Lifestyle Decision.

It's probably more her than me. But then I suppose historically (yes, you can use that phrase for someone who just missed the rinderpest) she has been the one to make most of the day-to-day decisions in our relationship.  Of course I have always made the important ones - those really responsible and often difficult decisions which require a lot of thought. 

For example it's ME who has decided over the years whether the government's foreign policy is worth the paper it's printed on, or what would happen if the world ran out of water, or who the coach of the Boks should really be, or what brand of beer is the best, whilst Mrs Ed has taken care of the more menial decisions, like what's for dinner, where are we going to emigrate to, how many children we should have, and that at our wedding, I and all the groomsmen should wear rather effeminate, puke-inducing salmon-pink cravats…..

So now, in her infinite wifedom, Mrs Ed has made me agree to  The Better Lifestyle Decision.

I was fully on board of course, understandably believing that she must surely be thinking of the same 'Better Life' as I was. ie That when the kids had left home, life would automatically be Better….
Better TV to watch,
Better to find the chocolate/ beer/ milk/ last piece of gorgonzola actually in the fridge where we left it,
Better not to have whole house ponging of old cheese sock,
Better to get home and NOT find 78 teenagers of various descriptions scooping our peanut butter out of the jar with their fingers / dying their t-shirts in our kitchen sink / playing  a sort of Justin Beiber / heavy metal medley through our shell-shocked hifi system and the neighbour's eardrums, and snogging on the WMCC (World's Most Comfortable Couch).
Better leg-room on said couch….
Better opportunity to sleep on said couch….

But I was wrong.

I was wronger than Barry.

What Mrs Ed meant by the 'Better Lifestyle Decision'…. Was….
Exercise.

I kid you not.

“We've got more time now, we can go for a run in the mornings and long walks in the evenings,” she suggested ….

Now I may have mentioned in the past that Mrs Ed isn't exactly a morning person. Actually that's a gross understatement. It's like saying Robert Mugabe isn't a jolly good fellow, or Willie Nelson isn't a good singer. 

In fact, whatever the opposite of a 'morning person' is, that's Mrs Ed.

Perhaps I am not explaining myself correctly.  Let me put it this way:- I would like you to imagine a hibernating bear, perhaps a 800kg grizzly, with 27 gunshot wounds to its 'anger gland', a rusty gintrap on its hind paw and a face full of festering porcupine quills.  Now imagine gently waking up said bear at 6am, and suggesting to it that now is the appropriate time for you both to lumber down Pelican Avenue to the lagoon and back.

 Now multiply the terrifying picture in your mind by 27. 

Got it?  Am I being unreasonable in suggesting that perhaps early morning runs are not the best way for a married couple to 'bond' with one another?

If the truth be told, I must also add that I am not exactly the sort who bounds out of bed in sheer delight at the thought of exercise.  Whilst I may have just a micro-tad more enthusiasm than Mrs Ed, it doesn't take much to put me off. 

Of course the night before a run, our stairway to bed is paved with good intentions.
“So, if we are up at six, we can run until seven, then perhaps take the canoe out for a paddle  it's lovely out on the water at that time,” (we must have read that last bit somewhere on a brochure or something)
“That sounds perfect - but I suggest we get up half an hour earlier, that way we can stretch a bit and have a quick bowl of muesli and fruit and a cup of herbal tea before we set off.”

The conversation is a little different seven hours later, when some idiotically cheerful DJ from some equally idiotic radio station skriks us wakker at 5.30am with blasts of Lady Gogga telling us why on earth she was born that way.
Me:- “AAAARRRGGGHHH!!! Uh Uh .. Good grief!  s'we gunna do this thing then? This run thing…?”She:-“GRMMPHH  bleagh, Huh?”Me:- “Are we going to run?”She:- “*WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME?  WHY ME? WHY MUST I ALWAYS BE THE DECISION MAKER?  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HAVE YOU GOT NO BACKBONE?” (*I have deleted any expletives and made the conversation far more loving and caring - as this is a family blog)
Me (now from a safe distance):- “It just that you said I was to MAKE SURE you got out of bed.  That on NO ACCOUNT was I to take 'no' for an answer…”She:- “I SUPPOSE IT'S POURING WITH RAIN!”Me:- “No actually it's quite clear…”She:- “WELL I CAN'T RUN IN THE HEAT- YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE!  WE'LL RUN TONIGHT.”Me:- “Oh...  good idea, …. But now that you're awake….. fancy a doughnut?” (This is a popular ‘bear-calming’ method used by Park rangers in the Rockies.)

Two hours later (around about the third doughnut) we discuss how the late afternoon would be an infinitely better time to exercise.  What better way to wind down after a hectic day, than a healthy jog around the lagoon, with the sunset and everything?
Pouring another coffee we carefully plan the proposed route.
“We could do a circuit through The Island and come back over Cloud 9, it's a stunning view!” enthuses Mrs ED.

Ten hours later, we stand in the kitchen,  running shoes in hand and our eyes nervously flicking from kitchen window to kitchen counter.  We can see the empty road, beckoning us to come and spend some quality time on it, but we can also see the milk tart which has somehow found itself lurking next to our coffee machine.  It taunts us with it's ugly, yet somehow alluring cinnamon-speckled face.
“Er… shall we go then….” I stammer, reaching over my stomach in an attempt to put on my first running shoe… Mrs Ed gives me a look so sorrowful, I feel as if I have told her she has developed a rare, incurable disease, or an allergy to pastry.
“Yes, “ she sighs, “I suppose we… HANG ON! LOOK!” She points more than a little energetically out the window.“A CAR!  A CAR!” “Which means...” I urge her on, somehow sensing that this is going somewhere useful.
“WE CERTAINLY CAN'T RUN IN HEAVY TRAFFIC!  IT'S JUST NOT SAFE!” she beams, reaching for the Milk Tart.
“YES!” I cry, in a manner officially disappointed but inwardly delighted. I rush to the kitchen drawer for the cake slice. “But when are we going to run?”“Tomorrow morning of course!” she answers, “It's so much better to run in the mornings, when we are nice and fresh.  If we are out on the road by 6.30, we'll get to see the sunrise!”
“Orrgghhhh,” I splutter happily (there's not much more you can say with a mouthful of milk tart) “Wogbeblagd dunnda!”Which means, as those of you who speak Milk Tart will know,    
We'd be mad if we didn't!