My running clothes were in a bad way. The Enthusiast would scrunch up her nose at me and say, "Ew, you stink!" And this was before I went for a run.
So I have a tendency to rewear my running gear. But clearly, time had come to throw some quarters into the washer and clean my shorts ... and shirts and tights and socks and running underwear and, yes, I have special running underwear and wind pants and gloves.
Meanwhile, I had the urge to do something exercise-ish. So I decided to jump rope in the basement/washroom until it was time to put the clothes in the dryer.
After you push in the coin slot carriage to turn on the washer, the display reads "21." I thought this meant I would be jumping for 21 minutes. I had my stopwatch, but decided to use the washer as my timer. I can do 21 minutes of jumping rope.
About five minutes in when I had my first hiccup in jumping rhythm and snapped the vinyl jump rope against my calf, I looked at the washer to see how far the timer had ticked down. "21," it read.
Perhaps what the washer really meant was that I need to get started on Steve Stenzel's Twenty One workout. I looked at my watch and tried to calculate what time I started jumping. It was a little after 6 p.m.
Meanwhile, I could hear Dobson barking up a storm. I ran upstairs to see what was his malfunction. I settled him down, gave him a treat and ran back down to the washing machine. Now, the washer read "16."
OK, so maybe it does count down, but at odd intervals. I started jumping again. The washer read "14," then "13," then "10," then "9," then "9," still "9," it's stuck on "9" and my watch says 6:17. I decided I'd go until 6:25 if the washer didn't stop sooner. Of course, the washer didn't stop sooner.
I'm pretty sure I jumped for about 21 minutes. I have no idea how long that washer went. I had to go back upstairs to get ready for Dobson's obedience class. The washer stopped sometime before I got back down there to switch the laundry before we left for training.
Stupid washer. The good news is my running clothes are clean, and my jump-roping has gotten way better. I can do the two-foot jump, the running man jump and the one-foot jump. I'm awesome.
Wherein my readership two-ups me and undercuts my success.
Miss Zippy allows me some leeway with my Elevens workout, but goes right ahead and raises the bar: "We'll cut you some slack for the dog. I have made the 11s workout a part of the routine. Have done it for 2 weeks now and I definitely need to move the bar up--Josh and I discussed 13s, which is my goal next week. Can't really imagine ever making it to 21, can you?"
Answer: Crap! I'm falling behind in my own workout!
Meanwhile, Barefoot Josh has gotten even faster at kicking my ass at my own game: "I'm now at 4:08, with real sit-ups. I'm a machine."
Answer: Both you and Zippy are responsible for my new tag, jerks.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!