Pot, Meet Kettle

Danny's sick too.

Between the two of us, we're coughing, hacking, nose-blowing Kleenex hogs. One could not see the end table for all the snot rags we placed there during a one-hour episode of Law & Order last night.

Even while sick, Danny is reluctant to miss his regular, three-times-weekly visits to the gym. It's an addiction, he says. He feels irritable and disappointed if he has to skip a workout. I understand that completely, as I feel the same way about my softball and karate. One missed opportunity renders me cranky and full of guilt. I know how he feels.

Yesterday, a few hours after texting me that he was feeling like utter crap, he went to the gym.

I wanted to kick his butt. Working out while sick is a terrible strain on your body. You need to rest and allow yourself to heal. That is what I've always said to people around me. But I know perfectly well that I don't follow my own advice.

This past weekend, I went to my karate class on Saturday, and then to my belt promotion test on Sunday. I felt like a truck had run over me both mornings. I had no strength, and very little energy; barely able to get out of bed with the effects of this sinus infection. But I ignored my bodily ailments, sucked it up, and went anyway. Yes, I made it through both classes, but barely.

So, when Danny told me he went to the gym yesterday, what, really, could I say to him ?

Absolutely nothing.

We both love our exercise, and would not even consider giving it up unless we're on our deathbeds. I can't, in good conscience, give him heck for doing the very same thing that I had just done on the weekend.

Call us crazy. Call us addicted. But nobody can ever call us lazy.

Now, it's time to pop some more Sudafed.

I need to be snot-free for karate tonight.