back from the gym . . .

yep . . . I signed up at a gym again. I was forced into it when reality hit me on the head . . . literally . . . I had slithered off the far side of Katie's bed, trying to fetch something, and got trapped . . . . head on the floor . . . I had no arm strength to get myself up and I was wedged between the bed and the wall. What happened to the sanctity of the cave? Oh the shame.

Now my romance with "the gym" has never been particularly successful. I just can't find the perfect match. The last attempt was the worst . . . where the "slug", me, and Brunhilda the Beast, my trainer . . . failed to see eye to eye on my progress. Yes, I am motivated and yes I want to get back into shape but my idea of a good time is not being pushed until my breakfast threatens an encore or I am so dizzy I walk into walls. There has to be a happy medium. Brunhilda and I divorced . . . it was messy.

So I go cry on the shoulder of the owner of my old gym. It is within walking distance, the average age is ancient so I fit right in, (no more perky little things flouncing around showing camel toes and aureoles) . . . and he promises I can get back in shape without being ripped limb from limb by a Brunhilda look a like.

I have now completed session three and am a happy camper. Yes, I wake up the next morning with an anatomy lesson pointing out some lesser used muscles but it is all good. I can do this . . . I can do this . . yes I can.