Morning, chickens, from cold, windy Chicago.
Looks like winter showed up a little early around here.
It is not my favorite thing about this city.
And I’m not sure where I stowed any of my winter gear when we moved in, which means an even colder next couple of mornings.
Last night, I was feeling a little bit sluggish about heading to bells, but JW sent me this article and I decided that maybe baby W could use the cardio too.
Halfway through some kind of mid row, G announced to the class that he was in love with me, and that he was so happy that every time he saw me I was getting bigger, in a good way.
The class just looked around horrifyingly. I felt the need to gesture at my stomach, but instead just stood there laughing.
“I hope you all come to kettlebells when you’re pregnant!” he then exclaimed, clearing up the matter and allowing the other ten people in class to let out a collective breath of air.
At least I can laugh while I suffer, chickadees.
Post bells, I headed to “book club,” which is a very loose term for a group that actually spends most of its time devoted to catching up, drinking wine, eating cheese, and laughing.
We sometimes mention what we’re reading, too.
That part doesn’t matter so much, we’ve found.
I headed home in a chilly night to a warm couch and a stomach full of soup and bread.
That’s the best way to tackle a Monday, if you ask me.