run

5:21. Alarm goes off.  Just enough time to snooze once.
I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to move. I’m cozy snuggled up under the covers.
5:30. Beeping fills the room again. Sigh. Shoes on. Hair up.  I can do this.
Movie on – with captions, the sound is so quiet.  I do my best to keep the rest of the house asleep.
And I run.  A very old treadmill insists that I – not it – sets the pace.  I have to force it to keep going as fast as I’d like.  But I run.
Not far. Not fast. But for 30 minutes my heart beats faster, sweat beading along my hairline. 
I hate getting up early.  But I hate not doing something about my weight more. I watch the time tick closer to that thirty mark more than I read the captions on the movie.  “60 more seconds” I chant. “You can do this!”
40 now . . . just 19 more. . . 3 . 2 . 1. YES! I slow to a walk and begin a cool down.
I feel more awake than three weeks ago. I feel confident, capable, like I can actually make a difference this time.
I will not be down 10 pounds by the first of December.  Too much baking and not enough will power. But I can be down 5.  And 5 is a beautiful number.