I have decided that titles should be whatever I read around me at the time. Currently you have received the sports headline from the back page of the Sunday paper. Let me add it is the Crappy Lifestyle Light Reading Newspaper with Bonus Rage-Inspiring Columnist, not our normal Large Broadsheet Fact-Checked Newspaper. Our normal newspaper has a crappy, crappy TV guide and so I do not buy it on Sunday. Pander to my needs! Or I will ruthlessly cull you from my reading schedule!
In other Sunday news, I went to the gym. Yes, this is a vast departure from my usual slothful Sunday schedule. However Mr. T has taken up one of those “Get 4 weeks free then forget to cancel and end up paying through the nose!” gym memberships, so I dutifully went along (since, you know, I am already hooked and paying through the nose). There are lots of new weights machines, so in the spirit of experimentation I played on a few. This morning? My arms. Limp and noodly. I am pitiful. Seldom have I so fervently wished I had an automatic car. Changing gears was a finely balanced act of agony, accompanied by a hollow groan which sounded like a distant container ship listing in Port Phillip Bay. At first I feared the noise was emanating from my very joints; however it was coming from my lungs, a slightly more favourable option. Mr. T, of course, finds this all vastly amusing.
[poke] “Are you sore here?” [poke]
“No! Ha! You suck!”
“How about here?” [poke]
“No! I am fit and [poke] athletic! I could run a half-marathon right [poke] now- OW- OW- ow- ow! Damn you!”
Poor you!
I wouldnt even think of going to the Gym… unless a cute guy asked me to go… and got me some sports shoes since I havent brought these in like 6 years.