Just A Day, Just an Ordinary Day...

4:26 am. Alarm goes off. I disagree. Buddy pokes his head around the corner to see if I'm getting up. As he sees the comforter tossed back over my head, he flops down on the floor with a heavy sigh to wait ten more minutes.

4:36 am. Ten minutes goes so fast. Shoes are on, leash is in, dog is practically twirling to get outside. We walk. It is dark, it is quiet, it is peaceful and I often look up to the sky on these hushed mornings and wonder what God has in store for me that day. My contemplative state is nearly always broken by noticing that my dog is squatting somewhere, and if I don't hurry over, I'll be left to using my cell phone as a light to try and see where his poo is in the grass. From revelry to reality.

We walk until the leash goes slack, and that's when I know I've worn him out, and then we walk a little bit more for good measure. For both of us. We return, we both get food, and then I get ready for work.

As I'm pouring my coffee, Dr. C comes home. I'm fixing an English Muffin while he's scrounging in the freezer, heating up a Lean Cuisine or microwaving leftover She-Crab Soup. We could not be on more opposite schedules. He updates me on his night, we say good-bye, he goes to bed and I go to work.

6:25 am. My first class starts at 6:30, and they're usually hover outside the door raring to go. No matter what time of day I hold class, there is always someone who arrives 20 minutes early. I'm very particular about my time - being late is my pet peeve, but being early infringes on my nerves nearly as much, for some reason. Perhaps it's because those 20 minutes while I'm setting up my class are the last 20 minutes of quiet I'll have for awhile and I savor each one. I'm teaching a class on portion control, and the front table is set up with enough fake food to delight a six year old with a Play-Skool kitchen.

8:15 am. My two classes are done with, and I begin to make the rounds picking up the room. The adrenaline rush that is with me while I am pouring my heart into each class, and answering questions that I hope will inspire and educate begins to wane. .. I sit down, and my feet scream THANK YOU. For an hour, I alternate between checking emails and following through but also losing myself in the pages of twitter, facebook or someone's blog I may not even know.

9:05 am. "Am I too early?" My first appointment is here. The next two hours pass by in a blur. I do four 30-minute coaching session in this time. At least one will move me to tears, at least one will leave me wondering what I could have done differently to light a spark that seemed fizzled. There is nothing I like more than coaching people through their challenges, or hearing stories about the lives that go on outside my classroom. There's little time to think about it, because my next class is gathering out in the hallway.

12:00 pm: I am walking across the tennis courts in high heels. I pray the Rec director does not come out and give me THAT look. But I am carrying a laptop bag, a purse, a backpack full of handouts, food logs, newspaper articles, and a lunchbox. I arrive in the office and have a hard time fitting through the door, without dismantling the bags from my arms and shoulders. For two hours, I enter data, read food logs or do research, updating the classes I'll be giving tomorrow or the next day. There's a book on tape on my ipod as I enter data and the numbers fly by as I soak in Tim Ferris, Michael Gerber or Rhonda Byrne.

2:25 pm: I am pulling into the Starbucks parking lot. I am pondering whether I will have an iced skinny vanilla or a light-java chip frap. My client's car is already here, and I am excited for the hour that will transpire and the transformations we'll make. Did I mention already that I love coaching?

3:55 pm: Coaching is done, so now I am hustling to the gym. Fortunately, it is 2 minutes away. I arrive and my PT client is already on the treadmill. He waves, and I have a mini heart attack that he might lose his balance. He is 72 years old, and lost 50 lbs working with me on his food intake over the course of 2 years. Now we've added in exercise, and for some reason, 3 years later, he's still putting up with me. I work him through our machines - a serious of leg exercise, upper body and core. I hold my breath as he does crunches on the medicine ball and I am posed to catch him. He notices me doing this and yells at me for making him feel like an old man. I retract my hand and he immediately rolls off the balance ball. We finish his workout, and I begrudgingly say good-bye to him and drag myself over to a stair mill. 5 minutes later, I am deeply engrossed in Kate Gosselin's bodyguard romance and the timer ticks down on the machine. I repeat the exercises I just took my client through, and leave thoroughly exhausted but happy.


6:05 pm: I arrive home and can hear the barking as soon as the garage door rolls up. I grab the leash, open the door and whisk him out the door before he can say heyyyy you're home. Nervous energy, BE GONE. A quick lap and he's himself again, and will spend the rest of the night testing out different spots in our living room as suitable nap locales. I drag out a cutting board and chop, pour oil in a pan, throw in, sizzle and wait. I open the plastic clamshell of triple washed greens, throw on some fruit, some cheese, some olive oil, some pepper.

8:45 pm: My energy is waning, so I pop my ipod books back on and bustle around my end of day routine. Pack gym bag, lay out clothes, pack lunch. Walk dog one last time, brush teeth, turn on TV. DVR-ed versions of Stacy & Clinton, Cesar or Joel McHale lull me into a vegetable state.

9:27 pm: "You in the bed?" When the Dr. calls from the hospital after 9, he knows where I'm at. I'm reading Dr. Kessler's "The End of Overeating" and it doesn't take more than six or seven pages before I start to go a little cross-eyed. Flop the book on the floor, throw the glasses on my nightstand and *click*. Lights Out.

To do it again tomorrow.