Up and at 'em

Even if I miss my alarm(s) in the morning, the sound of the front door opening is sure to get me out of bed in a heartbeat.

Not because I think there's an intruder, and I'm worried for the safety of my family--no, I know that it's the Hubster returning from delivering the paper.

No, I haul ass out of bed because if I don't, and the Hubster comes in to wake me up, he'll get fresh with me. That's right. FRESH. And I love him, I do. But when I just woke up and I'm not quite coherent yet, I don't need or want him climbing into bed with up to feel me up or kiss me awake. Sometimes he's sweaty. Sometimes he had morning breath. Sometimes I have morning breath--and he may not care about it, but I do.

So this morning, when I heard the front door open, I jumped out of bed, not realizing that my alarm hadn't even gone off yet. (Okay, my early early one did, but I slept right through it.) After going to the bathroom and donning a bra, I exited the bedroom, surprising the Hubster, who had gotten up early because of "the time change," and then finished early as well. "Good," I told him. "Now we can exercise."

We did, too. 15 minutes of Pilates is better than 0 minutes, right? This was my third consecutive day of at least a little bit of exercise, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself.

Rock on.