As part of my quest to lose 20 pounds and sustain a healthier lifestyle, I've been working out. Yes, I know. It's certainly not like me. I don't run unless someone's chasing me.
My weapon of choice is livingroom aerobics. See, I don't like to leave the house. And I hate running on treadmills and the like. Livingroom aerobics, aided by perky blond women in spandex on my TV, seems to do the trick. Plus, there's much to mock.
This morning, I came downstairs to prepare my livingroom gym, and lo and behold, there was Eamon sleeping the couch. He was out late at a fundraiser for Windy City Rollers, and didn't want to wake me when he came in. Thus, the couch-sleeping.
I ask if he minds if I work out, and he says he prefers I did. So I change into my workout clothes, get a glass of water, return to my makeshift gym only to find he's still there, on the couch.
"Oh, I thought you'd be moving."
"Do you want me to?"
"No, I don't care."
It seems that watching me workout in the morning, in front of a tv screen, with my back to him, is his own personal version of smut and eggs.
As I shake my thing, I glance back, and see that he's fiddling with his cell phone, which is not unusual. I turn back to the TV, only to hear an ominous click and whirr.
Yes, that was the camera in his cell phone. My gyrating buttocks are now captured for all posterity.
Fantastic.
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