Thomelisa Taken, Pt III

It’s amazing how your training sticks with you, even years after you’ve had to use it.

Inside, I was screaming.  I was ripping the world apart and burning the stars to ash.  On the outside, I was completely still, because as my heart was crying out for blood, my brain was taking cold, calculating control of the situation.

Don’t move.  You’ve probably already disturbed evidence.  Take a deep breath.  Another.  Now look.  Listen.  Breathe again.  What do you smell.  What do you taste?

I held perfectly still, trying to sort what was normal from what was different, trying not to break down weeping.

Elisa’s bed was gone.  What else is missing?  Look, damn you.  Look.

I looked.  Her boat was there, and all the rest of her things.  But the path she normally took through the grass to the bridge that led to the window- it looked off, somehow.  I moved closer, bending my face to the table, inhaling deeply.

I could smell traces of her, the warm, yeasty-floral scent that was her natural fragrance.  But there was something else.  Something… like mud, black and mineral-rich.  I knew that smell from somewhere.  Somewhere very familiar.

The grasses on either side of the path- some of them were bowed outward ever-so-slightly, as though someone- something, with a much wider girth than my daughter had come down it.  I shifted, slightly, and as I did so I noticed something on the path that caught the light.  I squinted and drew closer still, doing my best not to disturb anything with my breath.  It was a smear of something clear, something that looked… sticky.

I frowned.  The shrieking in my heart had been tightly locked down, only barest echo reverberating in the depths of my soul.  My mind was told me to ignore it.  The rage won’t help you.  Not yet.  I followed the path with my eyes, to where it met up with the arching branch that spanned the short distance between the table and the windowsill.  I moved, carefully, to the window.

Our windows stayed open all through the spring and summer- my charms kept pests out, and I was a light enough sleeper that I’d have heard anything larger.  So.  Something small, but larger than my daughter.  Something strong enough to carry off her bed with her in it.  Something smart enough to be quiet.  Something that had left a smear of clear fluid.

Something that was going to regret its entire existence, when I found it.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt II

I wrote some disjointed snippets today- I rearranged them so they'd make a little more sense on the blog but still, very rough stuff.  Enjoy!
***

I went to the Elves because Elves always have a surplus of children: changeling children.  Birth is so rare among them that the more impatient turn to other sources when they crave something to rear.  They do not see it as theft: they leave one of their fey creatures in place of the child they’ve taken, and the parents are none the wiser for the exchange (or so the Elves tell themselves: since becoming a parent, myself, I now find myself skeptical of such statements).  But mortal boys and girls age slowly in the Elfin lands, and Elves are by nature fickle and easily bored; quite often the Elf who “rescued” the child from “a wretched mortal existence” tires of the experience long before the child in question achieves maturity.  There are three fates for such a child: sometimes, rarely, the Elf will return them to wherever they were stolen from, nevermind that decades- sometimes centuries- have passed; more often the Elf simply neglects the child, which typically leads to death.  Rarest of all is the neglected child that manages to survive and reach adulthood while still in the Elfin lands.  These become strange, not-quite-humans who can never again interact with the mortal world as one of them.

Knowing this, I thought surely it would be easy enough to procure one such child for my own; they’d already been stolen from their human family, who were in all likelihood dust by the time the Elves tired of them.  I would, in fact, be the child’s last, best hope for a return to some semblance of normalcy.

***

In time the bowl on the kitchen table morphed itself into an entire indoor garden for my daughter, and eventually I was even persuaded to create a few “safe” routes for her to go out into the actual garden.  I say “persuaded”, but what I mean is that Elisa, sweet-tempered as she was, showed herself perfectly willing to find any hazardous route into fresh air, regardless of my horror, and I decided that if she was going to be sweetly headstrong, she should at least be headstrong in a somewhat sensible manner.  Thus I installed various pulleys and ropes and slides and stairs and rope bridges about, around, and out of the house, so that she could have some measure of independence.

Elisa loved to be outside- loved it as certain flowers love it, always turning their faces to the sun- so really I shouldn’t have been at all surprised by her determination to be out of the house whenever possible.  If she wasn’t “sailing” on her indoor lake, she was sure to be found somewhere amongst my various herbs and vegetables.  I made it a rule that she must never walk on the paths, for that is where I would walk, and I never wanted to accidently crush her.  For my part, I did not venture off the paths unless I had my eye firmly upon her.  I also encouraged her to create weapons from needles and spines and bones, so that she could discourage the predators of the world, but the truth is that she rarely needed them; my charms kept most harmful pests away, and she was too strange for most creatures to feel comfortable approaching- too human in appearance, regardless of her stature.

It was quite an endeavor for her to get out of the house and into the garden, but she did it every sunny day- and she always, always came home at night.  On that rule I would not waver; I was happy to sit with her in the garden to watch the fireflies dance and the stars come out, to track the moon’s progress or listen to the distant wolves’ songs, but when it was time for bed we went together.  I knew what sorts of things crept about in the darkness, and while they would think twice before bothering a witch, they’d have no such compunction about harassing a girl the size of a flower.  But really, this rule didn’t require much enforcing on my part; generally speaking, Elisa naturally began to fade as the sun did, preferring to sleep when it was dark.

I would watch her sometimes as she slept, my heart so full I was afraid the smallest movement on my part might shatter it within my breast.  My entire life, until so recently, had been spent in service to others, and I’d thought that I understood the desire to defend, to shelter.  It was cold as ashes, however, when compared to the love and protective fire I felt towards my daughter.  Looking at her tiny chest rise and fall with her smooth, soft breathing, I knew I’d made the right choice in coming to this quiet corner of the world, so far from the human-made dangers I’d spent my life combating.  Quiet.  Solitary.  Safe.  Happy.

Until the day I woke, and found my daughter missing.

***

Elisa was an early riser, at least in the summertime.  In the wintertime she might lie abed a few more hours, but only because she rose with the sun, always.  I also rose with the wun in the summertime, but long habit had me up well before it during the darker months.

It was not a darker month, however, but early July when I woke to silence.

I wish I could say that I knew, there and then, that something was amiss.  I should have.  Elisa almost always sang in the mornings, her voice blending beautifully with the birdsong, but that morning I thought nothing of its absence, assuming she was already outside in the gardens.

I made breakfast as I always did- three eggs to divide between the two of us, and a little bowl full of heavy, sweet strawberries- and carried it out to the garden where I had a small table that we often supped at.

“Elisa?” I called out, as I arranged our food.  There was no answering call, however, no rustling of vegetation.  “Come dear, it’s time for breakfast!”

Thinking perhaps she was caught deep in thought or observation, I laughed and called again, but still there was no answer.  I frowned, and turned back inside.

“Elisa?  Thomelisa, are you sick, my love?”

More silence, and at last a tendril of dread began to uncurl in my belly.  Had a bird gotten her?  I tried to shake the thought from my head.  No.  Surely not.  My Elisa was too careful for that, wasn’t she?  Probably she’d only wandered out of earshot.

I went to the tabletop garden, hoping that perhaps she’s simply been swimming underwater each time I’d called.  But no- the water was still and clear, no tiny form darting about beneath the surface.  I glanced over to her “room”, a large shell we’d arranged to shelter her bed, and it was then I realized that something was very, very wrong indeed.

A girl might accidentally wander out of hearing range, or even do so deliberately if she was feeling a need to express her independence.  But a girl would not take her bed with her.  Bedclothes, perhaps, but not the entire bed; it would be too heavy for her to carry very far, and certainly too awkward.

Which meant someone else had taken the bed.  Probably with my daughter still sleeping in it.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt I

It's that time of year again- NaNo! And just like last year, I'm participating with my own goal. Rather than having a word-count goal, I have a writing-time goal: a minimum of 10 minutes a day. Last year it was really good for me (and I wrote Oathbreaker, which after a lot of polishing came out really great) so I'm excited about doing it again this year. Ready? Here we go! No editing! Wheeee!

***

Once upon a time I was a wicked witch.  At least, I was a witch who did things that might be considered wicked.  Never mind that I did them in the service of my country- or, to be more specific, in the service of the rulers of my country.  Any witch who uses their powers for anything other than healing or protection is, by default, wicked.  Thus, I was a wicked witch- never mind that it could be argued (was argued) that every thing I did, I did in protection of my people.

But that is neither here nor there.

Once upon a time I was a wicked witch, and then I stopped.  I retired.  Moved out to the country to live an uneventful, more-or-less-magicless life.  I say more-or-less, because only a fool isn’t going to turn a charm here and there in the kitchen, or in the garden.  That’s just common sense.

I didn’t lack for companionship- there were plenty of fresh-faced young farmer’s daughters more than happy to make my acquaintance whenever I so chose, and rarely did they give a thought to settling down with me.  And if they did, well- another simple charm would help them remember that they had greater aspirations in life than living in obscurity with a woman who never would talk about herself.

It was a good life- a content life- but I was missing something.  And after a few years, I realized what it was.

I wanted to be a mother.

You can perhaps see the problem I faced: fresh-faced farmer’s daughters aren’t much good for getting babies, enthusiastic as they may be in other arenas.  And although I certainly had fertility charms a plenty in my arsenal, I knew they wouldn’t work on me.  No child would spring from my body, so I’d have to get one another way.

Orphans aren’t as common as one might think, in a community with a resident witch who sets subtle wards against disease and accident.  And as I was no longer wicked, I certainly wasn’t going to just take a child.

Which left me with one avenue to pursue: magic.

There are two groups that a person might approach, if they have need of magical intervention.  The witches, of course, of which I was one.  We are dangerous, yes, but we are human, and therefore theoretically understandable.  Your average person is far more likely to approach a witch, if for no other reason than we are far more accessible.

But we are not all-powerful.

Neither is the other group, of course- the Elves.  Elves are an ancient race, supposedly living in their mountain palaces while our ancestors were still discovering fire.  They are decidedly not human, with minds utterly alien to our own.  But just as their minds work differently from ours, so too does their magic.  What we witches cannot do, the Elves can.  And what the Elves cannot do, we witches can.  And so you see, people have options.

I did not like the idea of petitioning the Elves, no more than one of their kind would like the idea of petitioning me.  We each are strong where the other is weak, which makes it seem like we would work well together, but the truth is that both witches and Elves cheat when it comes to bargaining, and we know it.  So we do our best to avoid it.

When I could no longer avoid it, I did go to the Elves- and I did cheat them.  And they, of course, cheated me.  They gave me a barleycorn, assured me it would grow into a rare and beautiful flower, which, if I cared for it properly, would blossom into a rare and beautiful child.  Care for it I did, and grow and blossom it did, which is how I found myself with an infant daughter so small I could- and did- make her cradle from a walnut shell.  Had I been an ordinary mortal, she’d have died, drowned in a drop of milk or crushed by a clumsy hand: but I was a witch, and she did not.  It seemed doubtful she’d ever grow taller than my own thumb, but all in all I felt content with the exchange of cheats, for I obviously got the better end of the deal.  There are certain advantages, after all, to having a child one can keep safe in one’s apron pocket.

I named my daughter Thomelisa, Elisa for short.  She grew swiftly, far more swiftly than a mortal child would, and by the time six years had passed, she had the mind and appearance of a maiden of eighteen or so.  It fretted me that, at this rate, I might very well outlive her- I was only halfway through my fifth decade, after all- but I decided not to dwell on the possibility, and instead enjoy the time we had together.

And enjoy it I did!  My Elisa was, generally speaking, sweet-tempered and curious, two traits which I did my best to encourage.  I taught her what non-magical healing I could, and encouraged her interest in all things related to watercraft.  I even turned a large basin into a sort of permanent lake for her, in the middle of the kitchen table.  She would paddle back and forth on the simple little boat I’d carved for her, and occasionally I would set a small wind charm to stir up the waves and create more of a challenge for her.  Eventually she learned to craft her own vessels from various plants, coming up with designs far more cunning than I could have dreamed of.

Stained Pt. 2

Erin returned quickly enough that I figured she must have dog-trotted through the complex to the med quarters, where Sully slept.  The man in question looked remarkably well put-together for such an early visit, but then I realized that he would have been up before dawn.

“What is it?” He asked, all brisk business in his role as Councilman.   I squashed a memory of him as a gap-toothed, skinned-knee kid asking me if he could touch my gun.  He was Sulaiman to the people of the complex, not Sully.  Which is why I was always careful to keep that nickname to myself.

“I want to take a closer look at that zombie out there,” I said, and gave Erin a look that indicated she should offer up her rifle so Sully could take a closer look.  She did so, and so did he.

“Those marks aren’t natural,” he said, almost immediately.

“Nothing about zombies is natural,” I grinned, and he looked at me long enough to roll his eyes.

“I mean they’re not indicative of any disease I’ve studied, nor do they look like any sort of organism that might grow on decaying flesh.”

“So you’re saying I can catch it?”

He gave me an appalled look.  “Catch it?  No, I’m absolutely not saying that.  I’m saying we can shoot it in the head and you can study the remains in the field, should you so desire.”

“There are markings on the head,” I protested.  “I want to look at them first, maybe do some sketches, and then I’ll put it down, promise.”

“Absolutely not.  We’re not taking a chance like that for something as puerile as curiosity.”

I arched a brow at him and said, “Erin, will you give us a moment?”  Eyes wide, she nodded and carefully traced her steps back towards the stairs.

“Since when is curiosity puerile?” I hissed as soon as I was sure she was out of earshot.  “Your father would turn in his grave to hear you spout such anti-intellectual bullshit.”

Sully’s face flushed.  “I didn’t intend-”

“I don’t care what you did or didn’t intend.  I’m older and meaner than you, and I’m just as familiar with the risk of a live zombie, even one that’s obviously starving and half-frozen.  I won’t bring it inside the walls, but I want to take a closer look at it before I blow the back of it’s head off.  Which I will.  You know I will, Sully.”

Sully looked away.  He did indeed know I would.  Anyone who could put down their own newly-infected best friend wasn’t going to hesitate to put down a stranger’s corpse- not even an intriguing, mark-covered stranger.  He stared out at the zombie and sighed.

“The rest of the Council-”

“The rest of the Council is also younger and less mean than I am,” I countered.  “And they aren’t here.  I only asked for your input- your input, mind you, not your permission- because you’re better with disease than I am.  You confirmed that it’s not diseased, and that’s all I needed.  But then you had to tell me ‘no’ in front of a youngling.  And what did I always tell you about giving orders?”

“Not to give ones you know won’t be obeyed,” he said grudgingly.

“Right.  Now, I’ll forgive your momentary lapse of judgment because you’re young yet,” Sully snorted at this, as well he should: 55 was considered well-seasoned in this cruel new world of ours.  “But we need to call Erin back up here so you can publicly give me the permission that I don’t actually need.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, old-timer, you know that?” He muttered.  I smiled.

“Well maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll bite me.”

Sully shuddered.  “Don’t say that.  Not even in jest.  If you turned so close-”

I placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  “Sully, if it bites me, I’ll blow my own head off before any of the rest of you can blink.  I swear it on your father’s grave.”

Stained

I haven't had much time to write lately (more on that in a few days) but this evening I found myself with a spare hour, and feeling giddy with the possibility of it all.  I had a little story seed hit me in the head this afternoon, so I wrote it out, and started poking it with a stick to see what might come of it.

This is the beginning of it, with more percolating in my brain as I type (but I need to get to bed):

***

There aren’t many zombies left these days, but we keep patrol, regardless.  After all, it only takes one, and enough of us of us are old enough to remember what it was like during the First Panic to not want to take any chances, impassable walls or not.  Every day, every night, high summer or dead winter, five of us stand sentry, one on each wall, and we look out across the landscape for any signs of movement.  Sometimes we see something- and usually it’s a perfectly living nomad, sometimes a peddler, or even a caravan.  Very, very occasionally, it’s a zombie, usually moving pretty slowly by that point.  We let it get close, just to make sure it’s not leading anything else in (and, honestly, to make disposable a bit easier), and then we snipe it.  Usually two of us take the shot.  Some might call that a waste of bullets, but I say it pays to be sure.  Plus back when we only did one shot, we always knew exactly who killed it.  Which was fine until the day Pietor discovered he’d killed his long-missing sister.  What was left of her, anyway.  Yeah, we all know intellectually that zombies aren’t the people whose bodies they animate, but hearts don’t always care what brains know, and nightmares rarely consult the forebrain.

Anyway I was on the northeast wall, stomping my feet to ward off the cold and mentally encouraging dawn- and my replacement- to hurry up, when I caught sight of a flutter out on the horizon.  In a way the northeast wall is one of the easiest to patrol, because there’s nothing in that direction, just flat land as far as the eye can see.  To the northwest is similar, except there’s a lake to take into consideration.  West holds more lake, east  gets the rolling hills, and of course to the south is the forest.  In the early days we always had three people patrolling the south wall, because the forest likes to play tricks.

I squinted and leaned out over the parapet, not entirely certain it hadn’t been a low-flying bat.  The sky was lightening by that point, and whatever it was remained a black smudge against the blue ink of the horizon.  Not a swooping bat, then.  I hefted my rifle up to my shoulder so I could use the glass for a better view.

Human-shaped, whatever it was.  Time would tell if it was alive or not, but I was willing to bet it wasn’t: something about the gait said it was shuffling in a way that had nothing to do with being footsore.  Zombies slowed down when they were hungry, and they slowed down even more in the cold.  That’s why so many of us lived so far north these days; longer winters.  I’d heard rumors that the lands near the equator were damn near uninhabitable, because nothing ever cooled off, let alone froze over.  And nevermind what that kind of heat did to decaying flesh.  The mental image of soupy zombies, more liquid than solid, was guaranteed to turn my stomach every time.

I sighed deeply and settled in for a long wait.  At that speed whatever it was wouldn’t get close until after my watch was over, but if it really was a zombie, they’d need a second gun, anyway, so I might as well stay put.  And in the meantime, I checked on it periodically through the glass.

Before much longer Erin joined me on the wall, saying nothing but holding out a steaming mug.  I accepted the tea and jerked my chin out at the middle distance, where my “something” had resolved itself very definitely into a zombie.

“Got us some target practice,” I said.  “Something odd about it, tho’.  Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Erin raised an eyebrow, then her rifle.

“Huh,” she said at last, and I could almost hear her squint.

“You see it too?” I asked.  She dropped the rifle.

“Yeah.  The skin looks… off.  Not like, rotting or peeling or any of the stuff you’d expect to see, just… weird.”

I nodded, satisfied that it wasn’t just me.  “Yeah.  Almost like it’s got markings.”

“Like tattoos?”  She peered through her glass again.  “Who would tattoo their face like that?”

“Maori,” I muttered.

“Who?”  Erin didn’t look away from the zombie, and I could tell she wasn’t that interested.  She was an adult, but young yet- only about sixteen.  She’d been born long after the First Panic, and her knowledge and experience had a lot more to do with survival in all it’s many forms than in cultures halfway around the world.  Still, I’d need to have a word with our teachers.

“We’ll talk about it later.  But it’s not just the face that’s tattooed, I don’t think.”

“Huh!  Well I’ll be damned.  I thought it was a patterned shirt.”

I looked through my own glass, trying to make sense of the dark and light patterns on the creature’s arms and torso.  Legs, too.  “Nope.  That’s what really convinced me it was dead: no one living would be walking around out there with so little clothing on.”

“You figure it’s close enough to put down yet?”  There was a touch of anxiousness in Erin’s voice.  This was her third patrol, and the first zombie we’d seen in over a year.

“Yeah, but I want to wait a little longer.  I want to figure out what’s going on with that skin.  Go fetch Sulaiman for me.”

That she didn’t argue with me showed how nervous she really was.  If she was older, or more experienced, she might have said something about plague, although it was rare for a zombie to be carrying one.  But she probably didn’t even realize that was a possibility.  Sulaiman, however, had trained under his doctor father, was on the council of five, and would have plenty to say about me letting an odd looking zombie get close to the walls.  I didn’t think it was diseased, tho’... but I did want another pair of experienced eyes on it.

A Candle Held By Steady Hand Goes Dancing in the Dark

I've mentioned before that I've repressed much of 1994, the year my father was diagnosed with- and died from- cancer.  This is just my brain's way of doing its best to protect me from the horror of that time, which just goes to show that Jerk Brain is definitely not part of my Real Brain, which is obviously a much more thoughtful and considerate entity.  Because when you've mostly repressed something, you can't really spend time dwelling on it, and if you don't really spend time dwelling on it, you're far less likely to slit your own wrists in a moment of poor judgement.  Of course, the flip side to that is that I also don't, generally speaking, remember the good times from that year, either- and yes, there were some; moments here and there of brave candlelight in a long dark night of fear and sorrow.

Yesterday I found out that my Great Aunt (sister to my father's mother) died.  I was at work when I heard, and work isn't really the time or place for processing such things, so I shoved it down and went along with my day, until I could get home and write in my journal.  And as I wrote in my journal about how I felt, and the impact Cordelia Ann Richmond Dew had on my life, memories suddenly bubbled up from the repressed darkness.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that I thought of the summer of 1994 as The Terrible Summer- I mean, I didn't really think of it at all, so how could I have a Title for it?- but apparently I do.  And one of the things that happened during The Terrible Summer was that my brother and I, eight and thirteen, went to live with Aunt Dee and Uncle Gene while my dad was poked and prodded, poisoned and sliced open, and all those other things they do to try and save you when you're very very sick.  In the haze of recently-recovered adolescent-memories it seems as though we stayed with them The Whole Summer, but I know it wasn't- surely it wasn't more than a month, maybe even only three weeks.  Regardless, three or four weeks is a very long time for a child (even a very clever child who has had to do a lot of growing up over the previous few months) to be sent to live with a great-aunt with whom she's never been around except in the company of the rest of her boisterous family.

I was not very gracious about it.  I don't mean that I was a brat, or rebellious, or anything like that- I was too much the Goody-Two-Shoes for any sort of negative acting out- but I was very, very self-centered and selfish, and spent a great deal of time alone.  My memories are of swimming in their pool, discovering MTV on the television in their office (I have very vivid memories of watching the video for Black Hole Sun over and over again), and reading Renegades of Pern in the room that had been designated as mine.  I remember finding Dee's copy of How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, and devouring it, and her providing me with reams of printer paper (remember when it was perforated?) to practice on, because she was an artist too and understood.  And I rememer her patiently showing me how to use the type writer so I could labor over my Very Epic SciFi Adventure Romance Story wherein a bunch of teenagers were abducted by aliens and dumped (naked, naturally) on an uncivilized planet to see if they'd survive (and breed, also naturally).  Definitely the main character was based on me (her name was Leia naturally) and the main love interest was 100% based on my three-years-older-than-me-crush.  And the other characters were also based on my best friends at the time and their crushes.  Just... thank goodness the Internet wasn't ubiquitous yet, that's all the commentary I have on that.

But back to the heart of the matter.

What I'm saying here with this long and rambling and typically self-centered bit of prose is that I spent a lot of time alone that month, doing and thinking about the things that suited me- and Dee gave me the space and support that I needed to do and think about those things.  She didn't hover, she wasn't trying to make me talk about shit I didn't want to talk about.  She was just... there for me.  And for my brother, who doesn't feature much in my self-absorbed memories of that time (beyond one moment of him dumping ketchup on his mashed potatoes, and her laughing).  And for my parents, who surely were having a much more hellish time than we were.  And for her sister, who was thereby freed to be with her son during said hellish time (something I now appreciate in a way that never would have occurred to me before I had my own son).  Dee was just... there, doing what needed to be done, and doing it without complaint while finding a way to smile and laugh and encourage you and give you what you actually needed rather than what society said you needed.  She was loving and accepting and smart and funny and loyal and wonderful, and I'm so grateful for what she did for me and for my family.  So grateful to have had her in my life at all.

I just hope she and her big sister picked a really excellent shade of crimson to slather the Hereafter with.

Hooked on Phitness Worked for Me!

I've been surrounded by a lot of good physical-fitness influences, lately, and they've finally rubbed off on me.  As a result, Nathan and I have spent the past five weeks getting up between 0530-0600, six days a week, to do p90 workouts.

I am surprisingly okay with this.

First of all, let me say that I fought against this for a long time.  Like, years.  Nathan has suggested not once, not twice, but multiple times that we do p90 together, and I have always resisted like a dog being called away from a dead squirrel.  Because I don't like to work out just to work out.  I have to sort of trick myself into it.  Like, "Oh I'm not working out, I'm just going for a fun bike ride!" or "I'm not working out, I'm just having climbing up this amazing rock face!" or "I'm not working out, I'm just taking a seven mile hike!" or even, "I'm not working out, I'm just teaching a group exercise fitness class but obviously it's teaching, not working out so it doesn't count!", etc.  You get the idea.  So the thought of doing some annoying video workout in my living room, where  I don't go anywhere or see anything or boss anybody around was like, "Blech.  No thanks."

But then I got really, really unhappy with my fitness levels, and with how much quality time Nathan and I weren't spending together, and I saw several of my friends getting great results (along with their spouses) from their new exercise regimens, and I said, "Fuck it.  I'll give it a try."

Now, I'm still not, like, "OMG working out in my living room is the best!" and in fact I get downright resentful on some cardio days (on the other hand, I might actually be enjoying the weight training days, sooo...).  But.  I really, sincerely am enjoying having this shared physical activity with Nathan (especially when he makes the recovery shakes afterwards) and I'm definitely enjoying the fact that after a full month, I'm finally seeing results (including the return of my waistline, plus hella fly guns: thanks protein powder!).  And these past two mornings, when Nathan was too sick to join me (mild case of food poisoning: he's fine now) I got up and did it on my own, and came to the realization that this is my lifestyle now.  Getting up stupid early and getting sweaty and gross is just what I do.  And then I feel really energized for the rest of the day, and my husband and I can bitch about how sore we are and it's bonding.  And that makes me really happy.

So yeah; I'm hooked.

(A post like this one sort of cries out for photos, but I don't want to post them just yet.  Rest assured, we took "before" photos [and I made a funny face because I was so uncomfortable with having such an unflattering photo taken] and we will take "after" photos... but that won't be until October.  I'll post them then, promise.)