Estimated reading time: 2 minutes
Croak croak!
Up and at ’em! By 8:00 am, we were dressed in our battle gear—a questionable mix of workout clothes and “I promise I can run… to the fridge” shirts—ready to fend off the dreaded personal trainers. You know, those fitness ninjas who can spot your lunge form faster than a hawk spots a mouse!
I mounted the stationary bike, ready to unleash my inner Tour de France champion. I cranked the resistance up to “what-was-I-thinking” level, and suddenly I was pedaling as if the escape route from a zombie apocalypse depended on it. I hit a magnificent 15 miles per hour—clearly, I was in the running for the next Olympic cycling trials… or maybe just the local coffee shop’s “fastest rider” award!
After 5.5 miles of what I can only describe as a battle royale between my legs and my will to live—throw in a decent amount of blood, sweat, and a few tears of regret—I leaped off the bike like I’d just won the Tour de France, ready to face JC, my personal trainer.
I always listen to JC, and last week he said I should try curls!
“Alright,” he said, looking at me like I was a slightly malfunctioning robot, “let’s hit the serious workout machinery.” I forced a chuckle, wondering what “serious” meant. Were they so heavy that I’d need a crane?
We completed the exercise at 10:00 am sharp and limped to the grocery store next door to obtain some much-needed groceries (chocolate syrup, sugar cookies, donuts, and heavy cream). I swear, JC was watching us go calorically berserk in the store and just shaking his head!
