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Here I am. A gray, murky Monday morning. I have been gone for much of the last gasps of March and all of the young month of April. It is good to be home. There are things to do. Housework. Yardwork. Catwork—which involves more than you’d think since Kyle has become, late in life, an only child-pet. No longer content to aggravate squirrels and stalk lizards in the courtyard, now he must be rubbed and held and engaged in long, one-sided conversations about whether he does or does not like his food. These discussions are quite boring in their predictability: Kyle does not like what is in his food bowl, particularly the dry as old bones Meow Mix. To make his point he’ll throw up emphatically on the new rug in the den, the slimy stuff punctuated with a shiny green grass blade.

Recently, Kyle has taken to sitting on Alex’s head while he sleeps. While Alex sleeps, I mean. The cat isn’t sleeping, of course. He is tail-swishing vigilant, watching for the moment Alex’s eyes twitch with groggy semi-consciousness. Our son is a better man than me and certainly more patient than my husband who many times has sent that poor cat soaring from the bed toward the door.

Fortunately, just this morning I finally found one of Kyle’s long-missing mice. Now maybe he’ll leave me alone and return to his game of pretend predator. Pouncing is good for the kitty soul.

My pouncing days are in the past but I certainly need to figure out an exercise that I will stick to, although that prospect is overwhelming in the absence of an ounce of discipline. Some years ago, I worked out with a personal trainer, who turned out to be, as they all are, a sadist. Since then I have walked fairly regularly except when I don’t which is also fairly regularly. There are times, though, I am dumbstruck with agoraphobia and can’t leave my house. On those days, if I get particularly perky, I’ll go up and down the stairs, skip and speed walk from room to room. I mean I do try. Really, I think about exercise all day long. I wear a fitbit and am awfully attached to it. I even have the Seven Minute Workout on my phone. It is supposed to be effective, that is, if you do it. Otherwise it does nothing, at all. Seven minutes once a day sounds so easy. And the sound of it is easy. It takes longer to scrub the cat vomit off the rug. But there’s an uncanny similarity between the two—I play hell making myself do either.

But since this is a Monday and I have been having too much fun in the past couple of weeks, now I have to make myself miserable. As soon as the sun peeks out from behind the smog, I’ll take a walk and then later just maybe spend seven minutes thinking about working out.