I’ve started working out again.
“Oh good lord,” you say. “Now we’re all gonna be subjected to ‘Woo hoo! My forearm muscles came in! Yay!'”
Come on, can it be that bad? I just don’t understand sentiments like Pat’s:
*I will not start an exercise program and chronicle my progress on my blog. If God Almighty wanted me to run, he would’ve put me in the Stone Age and set a saber tooth tiger after me.
Pat Kirby, Ramblings from the desert
As much as I adore Pat, I’ve gathered two important facts about her from her blog that you should know, namely: 1) She sounds tiny, and 2) I’m pretty sure my bottom outweighs her.
She may be scrappy as all get out and she probably can beat me at arm-wrestling (those artists build biceps like bowling balls!) but I figure I can quiet her down some if I sit on her. There’s no way she’s going to protest if she can’t inhale.
I won’t go into great detail about my workouts, I swear. I’ll just give you a few nonspecifics here and there, like how God Almighty didn’t see fit to send me a saber tooth tiger to help me with my cardio.
He did send me Mojo the Bulldog, though, an offer I resisted until yesterday—when I barricaded Mojo out of my workout space and as a result he almost electrocuted himself. (Electrifying details to follow in the next Monday Morning Mojo.)
So from now on, it’s just Mojo and me, working out, battling those extra pounds together.