Today the husband and I decided we'd bust out the Jillian Michaels Metabolism Boost workout. Shawn had never tried it before. I warned him that I probably wouldn't make it past the second circuit before my self-diagnosed exercise-induced asthma kicked in - and that if he judged me, he wouldn't see me naked for at least a week. The fact that I inhaled an inhumane amount of McDonalds 20 minutes beforehand, probably wasn't the most brilliant idea in the world.
Nevertheless, we got our Jillian on.
As per usual, I bowed out around the second circuit, due to the fact that I couldn't breathe to save my life. And it wasn't just your ordinary I'm-fat-and-out-of-shape out of breath, it was accompanied with some sexy wheezing, and coughing so hard that I peed a little. Twice.
Because my husband is a stud, and has rekindled his love of working out, he kept going. I, however, was passed out on the couch simultaneously trying not to die or wet my pants.
Midst my hacking up a motherload of a lung, Shawn looked over and said, "You're not recording this, are you?!" At which point, I wasn't. But it was a genius idea, whether he liked it or not. So naturally I started taking pictures of him
When he realized that I was, in fact, taking pictures of him, he pulled down his pants... and continued leaping around the living room. Touche Husband, touche. (And if that's not a golden mental image, I really don't know what is.)
And if you wanted a 53rd reason that I love this guy, there it is. How many husbands would do an entire Jillian Michaels workout, and let their wife post pictures of it on her blog? I submit that there aren't many husbands that awesome.
Meanwhile, an hour later, I'm still practically gasping for air. But I've managed to keep the pee to a minimum. Small victories.
Happy Monday, Internet.