I rolled over in bed to face the slumbering hulk of a man laying next to me.

“I didn’t get up this morning to work out.” I said, my voice raspy with over-sleep.

He knows this routine all too well; the constant internal debate I wage between always wanting to sleep more, and knowing I really need to just get my butt up to exercise before the demands of the day distract me.

They say we fall somewhere on the spectrum between lark and owl; I am whatever bird is naturally most active between the hours of 11:00am-4:30pm.

He’s witnessed plenty of days–probably whole weeks worth–of me letting myself out of working out in the morning, only to berate myself later for succumbing to the lure of the snooze. And, he knows all too well how hard I push myself to work more, strive farther, be better. 

Sometimes, he says, “Thank goodness, you needed that sleep, you’ve been like a robot these past few days.”

But that day, barely awake, his head almost completely covered in blankets, he said only four words: “It’s not too late.”

I sort of wanted him to be wrong, so without consulting my watch I said, “No, you’re wrong.”

He cleared his throat, paddling his way out of the comforter. “It’s not too late,” he repeated.

I checked the time.

Actually, he was right.

It wasn’t too late, yet.

There was no really good reason to stay in bed. I was awake, after all. It was later than I normally get going, but there was still time. Time for me to show up for myself, and to rise to a first, surmountable challenge of the day.

I kicked off the covers, swung my legs around, and let the pads of my toes make contact with the floor.

Then I was off. Leggings: on. Water bottle: filled. Shoes: tied. Coffee: inhaled.

Arms flinging, legs kicking, feet pounding, every motion a blow to the notion of too-late, every hydrant-knee defying lazy, every plank opposing apathy.

Not too late.

Not too late.

Not too late.