Emphasis this week on exercise. Last week I was lump and only made it into the gym to lift once. But after watching Henry's thigh expand and contract for three hours on Halloween, I felt sufficiently motivated to work harder this week.

I've been diligently arriving at the gym early in the morning, lifting at newly achieved levels - despite missing nearly a week - then being sure to do at least 20 minutes of cardio work on top of that.

Monday was great: I had all the energy that accumulates over a period of extended indolence. Lifting: fine. Cardio: no problem. Felt good to sweat, to move; I alternated between the Gauntlet, the water fountain, and weights with a smile on my face, drips from the fountain and the sweat off my forehead dropping from my chin.

Strange mix that morning: There was the usual geriatric contingent, of course; the trainers were earning their money with individual clients, all regulars I see daily.

One of the local TV sportscasters was there. I've forgotten his name, but once a long time ago I was on the same plane to Arizona with him. He looked sculptured enough; I watched him move around from machine to machine. I remembered back when Dave worked at Palomino and he told me he saw this guy come in to the bar alone to drink, maybe to pick up women. Is it difficult to hit on women if you're a local celebrity? I assume the risk of looking foolish would increase with the magnitude of fame. Eventually he moved over to the free weights area where he chalked himself up big time: His palms were coated so thickly in the white powder that it actually fell from his hands to the floor, leaving little trails.

Duran Duran songs played throughout the morning, looping and looping again, over the gym sound system. Why Duran Duran and why repeatedly? Was it stuck? I must've heard Hungry Like The Wolf three times. For some reason, I thought of Lunesse.

Wednesday I was still tired from Monday's workout. I may have felt energetic Monday morning, but by Monday night my muscles were already complaining and inflexibility settled in. I envisioned lactic acid between the fibers like chunks of hard, unforgiving, plastic. So Wednesday, I was exhausted but completed the entire circuit anyway and then 20 minutes on the elliptical trainer.

When I finished, I was so hungry that there were actually pangs in my stomach. The day before, I hadn't eaten any full meals, just snacks throughout the day. Not enough to sustain this growing girl, I'm afraid. I bought a Big Boy Burrito from Fresh On The Go there at the gym - I couldn't even leave the gym I was so hungry! It came with rice, black beans and salsa heaped on a plate in such delicate balance that all crumbled in the instant I stuck my fork into it. Rice and beans rolled over the lip of the plate onto the table. I finished the entire thing, and that made my stomach hurt too.

In the elevator I saw a man I see often at the gym. He comes through while I'm working out, in his King County Corrections coveralls, spit-shined lace-ups, and hair and eyes so well-groomed I can't think of him as anything other than a character from a movie. He swaggers a bit when he walks, the broad stump of him imposing with purpose and command. He talks like an East Coaster. He is the kind of guy who would raise his palm to his chin, rubbing side to side in a fashion that compliments the grimace on his mug. He is, exactly, a Bruce Willis role-in-waiting. He wears a gold wedding band. I saw him there in the elevator and he said hi. I said, are you a member of the gym or just a friend of Willie's? He said he and Willie go way back, those sharp blue eyes addressing me under a cap of meticulously domesticated hair. When I stepped out from the elevator, he gestured with a thickset hand, one digit pointed at me.

Friday I do it all again.