I’m running in the hotel gym that overlooks the pool. There are no pretty bodies in the pool, just kids and the occasional mom and the attendant who pointed my way to the gym. When I say pretty bodies I mean fit adult women with a pretty face. And that is sexist of me to write.

As I’m running, slowly, without pop in my legs and I think it's really unfair to be short and with a bald spot. I’m glad the pod of a treadmill with it’s TV on CNN blocks the view of myself in the mirror as it spares me from my husky self. The is nothing young and good skin about me at 51. But I do work.

Recently I changed my diet to give up meat when it’s convenient and if it’s not to choose seafood. I have no idea why I did this. Wait, I do know. It was because I heard a blurb about how much less water the equivalent amount of beans uses over beef. I can do beans, I thought.
So, I got up this morning in Hong Kong, my kids in the hotel room next door, Sabrina stirring but not awake and found my way to the nearby Starbucks. I had already checked, it opens at 7:30am on Sunday mornings. I ordered an Americano (not trusting the brewed coffee to be fresh) and a veggie wrap. I ate it staring out at the narrow street and saw something I haven’t seen much of in Hong Kong before. Joggers. Many of them. Fit and young and vibrant looking. Well, not all, but enough. They run early I imagine because while it’s already damn hot, it’s not damn fucking midday hot.
I finish my wrap and coffee and feel jiggly walking back to our hotel. Past an art gallery that doesn’t open until midday. Thinking of what to do with the kids and Sabrina today. A hike may be in order.
And then I go to the gym and run.