Tomorrow I turn 33. Not a special birthday or anything significant other than marking the day I caused my mom some pain back in 1978.
This morning, I was supposed to visit my personal trainer at the gym, but he rescheduled. That's not the worst thing that could happen, since working out with him is about 17 times more painful than going at it alone. (Editor's note: I'm also aware that means working out with him is also 17 times more beneficial than going at it alone.)
When I make it to the gym later today, I may skip my usual weight-lifting routine (something I've been hitting pretty hard for the last 10 weeks) and just log some miles on the treadmill. I feel obligated to do this, just so I can enter my age as 32 one more time before moving to the easier-to-punch-in 33.
Back when I was training to run my first 5K, I spent a lot of time on the treadmill. It was an almost-daily reminder of my weight (and weight loss) and age, since I input both of those figures each time I stepped onto the belt.
Turning 33 doesn't really make me feel any older than my previous couple of birthdays, but I will be more aware because of this treadmill practice. When you have to remind yourself on a regular basis of your age, it seems a little more important.
I guess the good news is, because of my improved health in the last year or so, I feel much better going into this insignificant birthday than I did my last significant birthday ... 25 ... when I could finally rent a car on my own.
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