“From Monday to Friday,” I tell the wife, “I’ll be doing 100 push-ups. And Tuesday, Thursday, and I think Saturday, 100 squats. Oh, and I’ll be aiming to run 20km per week.”
She looks at me like I’m mad. “What for? What’d you pushing yourself so hard for?”
“I gained three kilos since the lockdown,” I say, reminiscing about my peak pre-marathon weight last December.
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t even notice!” she says. “Who’s going to know?”
I had no real answer for her, but I suspected the answer beckoned beyond the door of which I was heading out.
This week’s run was expecting me.
When I cancelled my credit card because I didn’t want to pay the annual fees, a number of recurring payments to my favourite charities were affected.
I managed to update three of them relatively quickly to another, but for one of them the process was so painful I dragged my feet on it.
Weeks passed, and I still hadn’t done anything.
“Who’s going to know?” I asked myself. Besides, with Covid and the uncertainty around our job situation, and pay cuts and possibly no bonus payouts and… you get the idea — seriously, who’s going to know?
On my run I came across this rock in the middle of the road and ran past it.
After about a hundred metres or so I turned back and kicked it out of the way. Don’t want nobody getting hurt.
But even if I’d left it there, who’d know?
Stayed up late to explore some data for work. No, it wasn’t something I was “expected” to do. I was going above and beyond yada yada — I tend to do things like that. Sometimes you strike gold and have lots to show for that extra effort.
But not today. Spent four hours finding nary a single insight.
Shouldn’t have done it, no? Who’d know?
Back from my run, I closed the door behind me.
It was a good run, I thought. But nobody would know.
Wait a minute. I would.
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