Aspiring (Perspiring?) to Say Something Nice

Over the past few weeks, a new tradition was born in our home. Once a week, I leave home before Shane returns from work and I get back after two continuous hours of a rigorous workout, being sweaty in a non-obvious way and totally craving food. But before I get into that tradition, let's talk about the sweat, shall we? Charming, I agree, but I need to address this first.

I'm not one to sweat. I know some people who can get drenched in their own sweat by simply taking a stroll around the block (I'm looking at you, Shane) but I'm not one of them. This trait of mine comes with its pluses and minuses, with the pluses obviously being in surplus. In fact, there's only one minus to this and that has more to do with my ego than anything else.

You see, I love the feeling of sweating during/after a workout because it tells me that I have accomplished something. It's totally psychological and probably stems from the fact that I used to train with one of the most intense classical dance teachers when I was younger. She wouldn't let us turn on the fan during sessions conducted even on the warmest tropical afternoons in Kerala and after each of her classes, my parents would ask me to sit straight and not let my damp, sweaty clothes touch the seats of our car on the ride back home. That was one phase of my life when you could wring my clothes to fill buckets with my sweat. It was satisfyingly intense and I must admit that it's been a while since I felt that way.

Dance, however, has re-entered my life albeit in a more relaxed format - in a Zumba format. And I'm loving it so far. The only issue is that starting with my instructor to the people I dance with, everyone seems to be sweating a lot more than I do. And I want to come first everywhere, even in the sweat department during a workout. That simply doesn't seem to be happening yet and I've finally had to make my peace with it. As long as I'm enjoying myself, right?

Anyway, yesterday, after an amazing workout, when I jumped in the shower, I could taste salt. For a minute there I was confused but then I realised that I was tasting my own dried up sweat from my hair, forehead, and nose. Are you guys still here? I know I can get really gross but the grossness comes with a sense of shamelessness so I'm not gonna stop talking about sweat anytime soon although that's not the point of this post. At all. Hang in there, buddy!

When I got out of the shower, I excitedly hopped up to Shane in the kitchen and told him that I did sweat after all. It was all right there, I just didn't realise it.

And he said, "Oh yeah, I tasted it too when you walked in and I kissed you. It was disgusting but then I was like, it's you so...meh".

That shamelessness I talked about earlier? Yeah, that disappeared right that instant and I suddenly felt the need to curl up in a hole somewhere and die. I suddenly didn't want to sweat anymore. As you can see, I'm one of those people who are really confused about what they want in life. The sweat debate continues - to sweat or not to sweat - but I'm happy to report that I'm back to being shameless again.

Now for the actual point of this post. Remember I mentioned that Shane was in the kitchen when I hopped up to him with my sweat revelation? That's because it's now become a tradition in our home that once a week, when I return home at night feeling tired from the day and my workout, Shane surprises me with dinner. He initially started doing it just for fun but now, he pays attention throughout the week to figure out what I might be in the mood for when I return and he gets it ready. He shops for the ingredients all by himself, finds the recipe, plans ahead of time, the whole shebang!

Last week, we discussed how we'd never made poached eggs in our home. I told him how much I love poached eggs but never had the confidence to try it out. A few days later, I returned home to "breakfast for dinner" which is my favourite kind of dinner, with guacamole on toast, topped with bacon and - you guessed it - poached eggs. Oh, and a hell of a lot of Italian seasoning. And the eggs were perfect. You wouldn't believe that he was making them for the first time in his life.

And sometime in the duration of this week, he picked up signs that I was craving Indian food. I kid you not, I didn't even realise this myself. I got back home yesterday to enough butter chicken to feed a village, store bought garlic naan which surprisingly did not disappoint and an assortment of Indian starters.

What he does for me once a week is the sweetest thing considering how I've never done anything of the kind for him in the two years that we've been married. Not even once has he returned from a long day at work to find a surprise dinner comprising of all the things he'd been unconsciously craving. But what makes it even sweeter is that he never expected anything of the sort in the first place.

It's the cutest thing in the world when he banishes me from the kitchen area if I return sooner than he anticipated. Sometimes, he asks me to get out of home sooner than I need to because he doesn't want me to even guess what he's making based on the ingredients he's bringing home. Yesterday, he even hid the garlic naan and starters from me while the butter chicken was in its final stages and I wondered out loud what we were going to have the curry with. I checked the fridge and the pantry to no avail because he hid everything away on a shelf that I couldn't reach (or see for that matter because I'm too short).

I know I started this post by talking about sweat and somewhere in there, I even made fun of him for sweating a lot. But deep down, all I want to try and do is scream off a rooftop and proclaim to the world that no one loves this man as much as I do. That as far as I'm concerned, no one could love anyone as much as I love him. That I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.