Why I’m not complaining

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It has been uncharacteristically damp in my part of the Midwest lately which, while good for farmers, positively stinks for people like me who like a lot of outdoor activities.  Especially in an area where sub-zero temperatures force most exercisers indoors for several months of the year, not being able to exercise outdoors when the temperature is finally non-frigid is excruciating.

So this morning I awoke to thunder and lightning and slogged my butt to the gym, internally whining about the cosmic unfairness of thunderstorms that seem to occur only during prime workout time.  As I pedaled away on the stationary bike and mentally catalogued my misery, I began to overhear snippets of the conversation between one of the gym’s personal trainers and her client.  At the age of 32, this particular trainer had been recently diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.  She was telling her client about how her scalp was bothering her and how she suspected it was a harbinger of imminent hair loss from her chemotherapy.  She was also talking about a recent wig-shopping trip, how she found one in a style she’d always wanted to try, how fun it would be to be blond one day and brunette the next.  How she wouldn’t wear them while working out—too hot, too itchy.

So I went an extra ten minutes on the stationary bike.  I will never complain about the rain again.