Maybe I should wear more protection...

So I'm standing there, well, elliptical-ing there, (mostly) minding my own business at the gym...I've been on the machine long enough that I'm sort of starting to drift off into a cardiovascular haze.

Until something invades the periphery of my visual plane.

Now, I'm sort of a live-and-let-live kind of person; someone who doesn't really get worked up about what others wear or do if it's not harming anyone. But this just seems a bit over the top.

So I steal a glance to my right, being careful not to lose my balance so I'm not hurled off the Elliptical Machine into some ignominious heap. A gentleman has carefully placed his belongings next to the machine to my right, and is opening the gym bag he has brought with him. Lo and behold, what should appear from this Mary Poppins-like container but a mask. Not a Zorro mask or a gel mask for the eyes - either of these two would have been less disconcerting than what this gentleman placed on his head.

It was a full-on, bona fide, boxing mask. And not just the one where there's padding on top and on the sides. No, this included the cage-like contraption that covers the face. He looked like he was getting ready for hockey practice. Only he was climbing onto the ELLIPTICAL MACHINE. And not some special elliptical machine that throws punches while you ellipsis away. There were no hidden spikes that might emerge unannounced should you decide to anger the man in the machine by not finishing the whole program. So I wondered, in the same way I wonder about, oh, I don't know, psychopaths, whether this seemingly innocuous man was simply trying to be funny, or whether he actually and truly and honestly BELIEVED with all his heart that there was some chance of his face or orb being hideously maimed while on the elliptical machine.

So then, given my inherent insecurities about this world, I started to wonder if maybe I was the insane one. The one not properly protected from the various, lurking dangers at the gym. I mean, I don't even shower there, for fear of foot fungus.

And let's not even get into the things a microscope might find on the mat where I stretch...

It was getting ugly in my head.

I stole another glance at the now-elliptical-ing, mask-clad man.

I decided if that's what he needed to do to feel safe, then I should just shut up (the conversation in my head) and go back to (mostly) minding my own business.

We all need our security blankets. Maybe that was his.


It happened. And it was amazing. As fulfilling and life-changing as I thought it would be.

And there wasn't even much screaming involved. Just a few whispered words, some well-timed kisses...

and both boys slept IN THEIR BEDS last night!!!

And I slept in mine!!!

All alone!!!

(Well, maybe that last fact is not to be so publicly relished... but I digress...)


I'm not sure if I'm conveying the giant-ness, the enormity of it...


Am I getting my point across?

For those of you whose offspring don't know what Mom and Dad's bed feels like, I (begrudgingly) congratulate you. For those, who, like me, have had a certain amount of trouble finding any way to make the kids stick to their own mattresses, please celebrate this milestone with me...

and let's get some fucking sleep already!