At the end of another breakneck week, I can happily report that I can see the end of the Boulevard of Broken Necks. My manuscript is submitted, the OP is about to be euthanized, and I'm on vacation all this week. Now that my daily schedule is about to downshift from three jobs to none, it's time to divert some attention from my overtaxed mind to my oversized arse.
In keeping with my long-time, binary love affair with the gym-rat lifestyle, I'm going on-again. I worked out regularly for years, until the job with the kick-ass gym kicked my ass out. Then I joined a cheap biker gym that was open 24/7, and it closed after a month. I got resourceful and bought Robert a bike, but 1) that's only a warm-weather thing and 2) eating your four-year-old's dust gets really old really fast.
I've resisted joining the Snooty Chain gym, mainly because a lot of my neighbors work out there, and although nudity is just fine with intimates and strangers, it just doesn't work with casual acquaintances. (When I'm in the steam room, I really don't want to have to grope for small talk about recycling.) But when the place offered to waive the entry fee, I decided to plonk down the rest of my blogging money and invest in my physical plant. For too long I've been relying on caffeine and 5-HTP to get through the day while my natural endorphins have had their feet up, swilling beer and watching roller derby. The weather is warming and Bike Season is approaching; if I don't start generating my own energy I'll never keep up.
It took me two weeks to get over there, and even then it almost didn't happen. I couldn't find my combination lock. Then I found it, but I didn't know the combination. Then I found the combination, but I couldn't find my sneakers. Then I remembered that the boys had Gullivered me earlier that night, and Robert had lashed my shoes to the dining room chairs with knots as big as pine cones.
But when I got my kit together and finally pushed through those doors, it all came back to me. That haunting bouquet, part industrial cleaner and part feet! Those towels as soft as 40-grade sandpaper! Vats of vibrantly colored goop labeled "body wash"! Acres of pale, tubby flesh!
I'm back, and it's like I never left.