Conversations with My Heart

I know this sounds like the name of a new Sally Fields movie, co-starring Julia Roberts. It’s not. It’s me taking a quiet moment for some introspection. I like to drink coffee alone in my basement every weekday morning. Usually I catch up on the BIG NEWS of the day according to cnn.com and the detroitnews.com. Who am I kidding? I spend all morning on TMZ.Com looking for nip slips. Then I nap.

But today I’m just not in the mood for celebrity nipples. It’s Valentine’s Day. Mrs. Nitmos is at work. The kids are at school. Heck, I’m even “working” right now (though I doubt my employer cares that I just found an old Cameron Diaz nip slip). On this day of wine and roses, I’m sharing a warm coffee with a group of ants that have recently started scouting the walls of my house looking for a nice nesting spot. They zig, then zag, until I pin the bottom half of their body to the wall and then watch their top half slowly unwind away its life in a frantic arm wiggle over the course of the next hour. Each time I look up from TMZ, the arms are moving a bit slower. While strangely, erotically satisfying, today is not the day for insect torture. Today, their benevolent overlord dispatches them with a full thumb BOO-YEAH smash that sends them straight to hell. I’m not even going to look at celebrity nip slips either. Call me a romantic.

Mrs. Nitmos knows how lucky she is to have me. Hell, I feel lucky just being me. As always, the thing most people love about me is my modesty. I’m told it really shines through from my granite jaw line, fierce, determined eyes, and bouncing could-cut-glass pecs. I’d blush if it weren’t so true. I know you all appreciate me too. When someone asks, 'have you ever read Feet Meet Street?' You all probably say with a playful, dismissive wave of the hand, “Who, that modest guy’s terrific blog?” Do I have flaws? Of course…a complete inability for accurate self-reflection. It’s liberating.

But this isn’t about me – what kind of egomaniac has a blog to talk about themselves?? This is about Mrs. Nitmos. She’s been in the business of getting back into the running business lately. She’s been treadmilling, shoe buying, and contorting herself all over the house into weird configurations that she calls “exercise”. Her arms are sore. Her glutes are sore. Her hamstrings are sore. Her flux capacitor is sore. Really, it’s beautiful to see. I’ve been running, stretchy banding, crunching and pushing up the same general way over the last several years that I’ve missed that good, old-fashioned I WANT TO DIE DUE TO THIS MUSCLE PAIN feeling you only get from new exercises. I’m jealous. I like watching her limp around rubbing her ass. I like hearing the pan fall in the kitchen because her arms were sore and gave out trying to lift it. (Don’t worry, hon, the dinner can be made again! Repetition is the key to success! A runner doesn’t build speed through just ONE 800.) There’s something weirdly erotic about seeing her in pain due to working out. Call me a romantic.

Running is a solo sport…done adjacently to others. It’s better in a pack though.(t.w.t.o.s)* While I enjoy the solitary nature of the sport, it’s nice to share the pain with a loved one. It’s like going to a his n’ her submissive club and being tied up together with one of those little red balls in our mouths. Each whip sting sends a dreamy, heavy eye lidded glance of love between our two restrained heads. This is something we are doing together – in our own independent world of torture - no matter the pain. Safe word, schmafe word.

This is the conversation I’ve had with my heart this morning. I love to see Mrs. Nitmos in pain: her arms flailing away in exercise…getting slower and slower due to fatigue…the intoxicating pain and searing muscle burn…the frantic fight against the natural, inexorable pull towards inactivity to which most people succumb. You all may like your chocolates and sappy poems and significant others dressed up in pretty clothes and coiffed hair. I prefer my sweaty wife with sore arms and the zesty scent of a good work-out. Though, to be fair, I wouldn’t turn away from a good Nike sport bra nip slip either.

Call me a romantic.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

*That’s what the orgy says
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BONUS: My V-DAY Gift to You: Worst Conversation Heart Phrases (according to tbs.com):

1. UR. . .pretty?
2. Be Som1 Else’s
3. Where’s UR Mom?
4. UR GR8T. . .Psych!
5. UTI Luv
6. Eeew
7. Breath Mint Plz
8. It’s Over
9. Not Sry
10. #1 Hussy

What about for runners? Any ideas for run related conversation hearts? Let me get you started:

1. Long run?
2. My PR!
3. Wanna Fartlek?
4. Chase me
5. Wanna tri?
6. Lets get sweaty.