I love exercising and working out.

Love is a strange thing to feel at minute eighteen, when your lungs are complaining and the clock has apparently stopped moving.

What you love is usually the twenty minutes afterward — the shower, the odd clarity, the way a problem that loomed over you at nine in the morning has visibly shrunk by noon.

Plenty of loves work exactly like this. You love having written. You love having called your mother back. The affection is genuine and it sits just past the effort, which is the only reason the effort keeps happening.