2014 resolutions and our new gym

For the last three years, I've made the same New Year's resolution: to stop cursing. I have a mouth on me, and thankfully I've learned to keep it under control in important situations. I figured that if I could sensor myself so effectively at certain times, I'd be able to easily sensor myself completely. Boy, was I wrong.  

We're five days into 2014 and my endeavor is going badly. As though New Years resolutions were like Lenten promises, in other years, I simply gave up on the resolution after the first time I uttered a four-letter word. This year, I'm still trying, despite having dropped a few bombs in the last five days. (A more accurate figure would be in the range of several dozen.) I've had this particular scuzzy habit for years, so I know it's not something I can change overnight.

Giving up cursing is my only personal resolution this year because I know how hard the battle will be. But my husband and I share a number of joint resolutions, which are written on sun-yellow paper and attached to the hallway door leading to the garage with magnets made from spare buttons. Most of those resolutions are simple: be more positive; spend more time with the dogs; get and stay in the best shape of our lives. But the last of our joint resolutions is already proving to be tougher. Our biggest resolution is to work out together twice a week.

My husband and I already work out on our own time. In our basement gym, he lifts weights and rides the stationary bike. I do pilates and log my cardio time on the bike, too. Sometimes I smack around the heavy bag, but I do that more as an alternative to seeking therapy than as a means of working out.

When we were visiting my relatives in Virginia Beach over Christmas break, my husband and I had limited time to work out. Stumped, we squeezed in a joint workout on my dad's lifting bench. We both switched off spotting one another on bench press, my husband sat on my feet so I could pump out as many sit-ups as I could in sixty seconds, and he did curls while I did squats. In twenty minutes, we pushed each other hard, and we had a lot of fun.

Hence the resolution that we should work out together twice a week. Twice seemed manageable. If we did it more often, it would be grand. If we missed a few days here and there, it would be acceptable. On the twelve-hour drive back to Michigan, we both claimed to be pumped to start that resolution.

Now that we're back to our normal routine, keeping up with the resolution is not easy. It means that two times every week, one of us has to give up their own preferred evening activity (For my husband, it's his solo workout or watching the Red Wings. For me, it's making an elaborate dinner or riding the bike and playing Fallout 3 while my husband watches the Red Wings play) so we can do something together.

We have yet to do a joint workout downstairs in our basement. But luckily, the last week of snowfall has given us a new gym outside our house that others might call our 200-foot driveway. Three times this week, we've spent over an hour tunneling our way out to the street with our shovels. My husband uses the incredibly heavy push shovel that can clear long spaces with little trouble. I wield a lighter aluminum shovel good for scooping our narrow and shallow spaces. Together, we can clear the driveway in between one and two hours, depending on the wetness and depth of the white stuff on the ground. We work well as a team. I certainly can't imagine doing it all on my own.

So as long as there is snow to shovel, our twice-a-week joint workouts will probably consist of pushing and scooping snow.  Is it a real workout? Come on up here and spend a week joining us. We'll let you decide!