The diet is mine. Fitness is a bit of a family affair – or at least it’s a team effort as far as my life coach and son, six-year-old SuperDude (he really does have super powers), is concerned. Trailing me on my morning runs up and down the driveway and around the parking circle, his endless chatter and questions distract me from any aches or exhaustion.
We walked and ran this road a few years ago when I was on my last diet. Pound after pound, SuperDude chased me around my makeshift track, hugged me, and greeted the morning sun with me as we Downward Dogged and Mountain Posed our way through the summer.
He’s older now, but while wisdom threatens to peel some of the fantasies from his vision, his primary power is stronger than ever. Even as I sit down to write and draw, he’s at the video cabinet finding the perfect routine for tomorrow morning. And in the morning he’ll cajole and pull me off the couch. He’s half my size and his chirping and chattering will be powerful enough remind me once again that every gram of muscle I rend from my own fat is not converted just for my own sake.