My Ass is Sore

Yeah, I said it. There it is, for the world to see. I had a workout on Saturday that took me to new heights of physical exertion. I was doing some bicep curls, and I almost spontaneously burst into tears. I was not in pain, nor was I upset--there were just so many chemicals rushing through my body trying to help me complete that last fucking set of curls that I overloaded. I am so glad I didn't cry in front of Warren Beatty.

He has me doing walking lunges. I believe that the aforementioned lunges are of the Devil, and are the true key to my success. This is why I hate them, just like the bike. When I do these lunges, I critique myself so heavily it's hard to complete them...and they also just burn. Like the white hot heat of a thousand suns, they burn.

In order to deal with this overflowing emotion and self-doubt during the dreaded exercise, I pretend I am a famous figure in history doing lunges. Imagine for a moment that you are Martha Washington, waiting for ole Wooden Teeth George to get home from his little jaunt on the Potomac. Then do a lunge. Imagine your skirt getting all messed up, and how frustrating that must be. Your bonnet gets all sweaty and those perfect spiral curls framing your face lose their spring.

Pretend you're Jack the Ripper, preparing for a kill and limbering up a little. Imagine there is a knife in your hand. And you are wearing a top hat. That's right, make a face. Give yourself "Crazy Eyes." And maddog the prostitutes in the room with you. So what if they're little old ladies doing the StairMaster? This is Fantasy Lunge Land, where anything is possible.

Maybe you're Tiny Tim, and you are desperately trying to play the ukelele AND do a lunge. "Tip toe (inhale, bend) through the tulips (exhale, stand up)..."

Neil Armstrong? Betsy Ross? C. Thomas Howell of "The Outsiders" fame? Marie Curie?

At the very least, trying to think of a new historical figure makes me forget how much my behind aches. And giggling is much better than screaming...

Fresh. g