Turns out that I was wrong. To wit: the Winter Solstice, the most important day of the year, is not on the 21st; this year the shortest day of the year is the 22nd. It's just a day, you say, but when somebody is hanging from a cliff do you say, "it's just another minute?" I jest--sort of--because as I've reported, I've been doing just fine with these godawful short days. In fact, I'm quite happy. But, you know how it is, I worry...
This morning we had our first single-digit temperature workout of the season. The good thing about the cold is that you get right to it and keep up a good pace because it's not the devil that messes with idle hands; no, it's the witch of winter who has sadistic fun with fingers and toes.
Yet this afternoon it was close to 40 degrees (just like Costa Rica, Pop) and Jake and I had to take off a couple of layers in the outdoor exercise emporium. Today was the first time I did the workout program Jake's been on and all I can say is that it's harder than it looks.
He's got a new guru who seems to think you judge a good workout by whether you can get out of bed in the morning. But don't worry, I amended it to middle-aged man walking status.