Knee Deep in Slumber

All I've really tried to do these past three months - well, other than the usual take care of little man, keep the house in order, buy groceries & cook sort of thing - is get myself into a regular workout schedule. Despite my fairly aggressive 20 miles a week plus weights goal for myself, this part is actually really easy.

There's a gym a 10 minute drive from the little man's last two camps (and an even nicer one a 25 minute drive away). I've had a dearth of billable hours, so there's no big deadlines to draw or even guilt me away. I've found a very reliable workout buddy, who has a 3 hour morning window carved out between when he has to drive his lawyer girlfriend to work and when he has to hit the Honda lot and sell CR-Vs. I have a nearby grocer with chicken breasts that uncannily always seem to be on sale. I've even learned to deal with the bouquet of evaporated sweat, aging metal, and creatine-laden ass that emanates from every weight room.

So what's killing me? The sleep.

I'm sleeping more than little man here. I'm sleeping 60 plus hours a week. I fall asleep putting him to sleep, sometimes he sneaks out for a 9pm movie watching while I'm cashed out on the Batman sheets. Then when morning comes, he's up first, ready to wrestle or ride bikes or just chill out to a Max & Ruby when I can barely get my head together enough to make coffee - the Cuisinart Autogrind could give a fuck if you forget the filter.

Maybe I'm just catching up for the past few years or something, but its disconcerting, and its not something you can really discuss with anyone and expect to get any sort of sympathy. I might as well complain about all the sex I'm having.