Gym Guy

Liz was diagnosed with advanced stage metastatic breast cancer exactly 25 weeks ago. 175 days. Almost six months. And it has been 5 1/2 weeks since the end of chemo round 6 when she finally got to drop the Taxotere, steroids, and Neulasta. She still has no eyelashes, her eyebrows are barely hanging on, and her energy level is improved but it will be a long recovery road. She has a good 1/4" of head hair coming in though! We just want things to get back to normal, whatever that means now. We catch ourselves more often in moments when we are not thinking about cancer and death and treatments. It's a good feeling. It usually happens during The Great Food Truck Race or Judge Judy. Don't even get me started on Burn Notice. Boom.

The sitter is getting antsy to start her new job nearer to the city in a couple of weeks, and we still need early morning help at the very least. Why early morning you ask? (Just go along with me here.)

These last few months have provided constant, stark reminders of my own mortality. Not only because of Liz's diagnosis, but also because of friends and family who have gone (and are going) through serious and scary challenges. Plus my little brother now weighs the inverse of his previous weight. He skinny. So two weeks ago I signed up for a gym. And I go every weekday morning. Well, so far, at least for the last two weeks. Thus the need for a reliable early morning sitter.

On one hand I wonder what I was thinking. Cancer in the family, Cohen in first grade, Jensen in preschool and waking up like all night just to let me know he is there, I am in the most challenging and stressful part of the MBA program, I need to ease back into helping more within the lay leadership position at church <insert huge shout out and thanks to John, Kurtis, and Steve here>, and I have a job and responsibility to my team and company. On the other hand I realized that it's now or never, so I signed up to get mercilessly shamed multiple times a week work with a ruthless escaped convict personal trainer who helps me have accountability and learn how to actually work out the right way. Honestly, she's not so bad. (Yes, she is.) But after a couple of weeks her demonic methods scare me so much that I am afraid to leave I feel great and can't wait to get back the next day. But I'd still rather be sleeping.

The only problem with the gym is that Gym Guy is there. When I refer to Gym Guy, I mean literally any guy in the gym who does or says or shows anything that makes me throw up a little in my mouth. And I don't plan to make a lot of friends there, since most of the time Gym Guy ain't wearing much. Some recent examples (parents, shield your kids from the following):

• Mid-life crisis Gym Guy walked in with his workout shirt emblazoned with "Can we just skip to the part where we get naked?" I was offended by both the content and the grammar.
• Old and wrinkly Gym Guy was walking around the locker room, totally naked, except for the swim cap and goggles on his head.
• Short and overweight Gym Guy leaning way over onto the counter to brush his teeth. In his tighty whiteys.
• I hear showering Gym Guy blowing his nose. Note: there are no boxes of Kleenex in the showers. Good thing he uses the same stall every day, so I don't have to use it ever.
• I was minding my own business, walking from the front of the locker room to the back, when I had to make my way around tall and overweight Gym Guy, who had one foot up on the counter and the gym-supplied hair dryer clearing his nether regions. No clothes. Fortunately this morning I noticed that the hair dryer is conveniently missing. Whew.

So other than Gym Guy, the place continually reminds me of how much I hate working out is great.

One parting thought from our friend Colette, in light of the chaos that is cancer. Go Team Liz.