I'm in a fight with my running shoes right now. The funny thing is, we both have the same argument. They want to be used. They miss the road and the sand and they miss the way this island feels at 6 in the morning. I, too miss the road. And the sand. And I miss how the island feels at 6am way more than those stubborn shoes could ever understand.
Come to think of it, maybe it's not the shoes I should be angry at. It could just be my sleeping self, content to close her eyes to the awesomeness that is the early morning Caribbean. The one who groans when that wretched alarm clock goes off at 5:00 and moves barely the bits of herself required to change the alarm time to 7:00. That's right. Asleep enough to only manage a groan, but passionate enough about being asleep to stretch her fingers more than just "snooze."
I would never hire a personal trainer. The thought of paying someone to tell me what to do (in some cases, shout at me what to do) is laughable. In my day to day life, someone has to be able to pay me before they can try and accomplish such a frustrating task, thank you very much. But maybe I could stand to have more than the non-threatening beep of my cell phone alarm clock telling me to wake up and get off my lazy butt at 5:00am. What I need is the 7 year old version of Alley, my kid sister, on Christmas morning. I need that every day. There is no way any human could possibly sleep through the kind of noise she was able to produce on that particular morning. I probably shouldn't limit that to humans. If I remember correctly, whatever variety of dogs, cats, hamsters, fish and birds we housed at the time were no more immune to the shrieking wake-up call of a little girl waiting to open gifts than any of us were. Oh, tiny Alley. I will invent a time machine and bring you to 2010 just for your incredible 5am lung power. And then maybe I'll be able to stick to that already-forgotten resolution to run at least most mornings. Maybe.