Liz Jones Diary

I finally got myself on the treadmill at 11:00am yesterday morning. A funny time to be exercising but I guess you squeeze it in whenever you can when your life pulls you in every direction imaginable. The apparatus itself was covered with red and black magnets from our playroom, the heart-rate monitor device had a leap frog toy clipped to it and each of the side rails had swinging monkeys with arms far too long even for their monkey bodies to be confused for real monkeys dangling from them. I stripped the machine down and headed for my thirty minute stroll, program four “weight loss” tour of the basement wall. I turned on the television to trick my body into thinking that I was lounging on the couch while walking and like one snap of Hanna’s fingers, I would be done. The movie Bridget Jones was on and I thought it befitting to my writing habits as of late. Jan. 24th—pages written—0, saturated nursing pads—2 pair, variations of “orange you glad I didn’t say banana” knock knock jokes—infinity, cash for life tickets—2, cash for life tickets my husband knows about—0, units of Metamucil—2 tsps, bowel movements—0 (that would be selfish to take five minutes for myself), number of times I held the baby while peeing—2, number of times I held the baby while peeing while at least one other child shoved their fingers under the bathroom door, wriggled them around and asked, “Mommy, can you see me?—also 2.

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