A mile and a quarter in 11 minutes, I think it was. And all I could think to myself as my belly and thighs were shaking like Jell-O in a quake was
1) This is actually pretty fucking funny, and
2) Don't stop. Whatever you do, just don't stop. It's just a fucking mile, for fuck's sake.
And I didn't stop, so that was the good thing. The bad thing is how conditioned my body has become to thinking typing is exercise.
39 years old with lead legs and rickety knees... ri.fucking.diculous.
But at least I wasn't hungry.
Get it??
Ri.fucking.diculous hungry???
I kill myself so much...
BREAKFAST
was yogurt with honey and strawberries tossed in a little sugar.
LUNCH
was a fridge cleanout Spicy Chuck Stew over polenta made with chicken stock and a little butter.
DINNER
was a Greek-ish salad with skirt steak.
And a shallow pour of our go-to cheap white.
DESSERT
was a shared little slab of cream cheese (about 2 one-inch cubes) topped with some of the strawberry jam I made earlier in the day, which is kind of like that cream cheese guava dessert you can get in some Cuban restaurants. I love the sweet/tart/creamy/slightly salty thing, and just a few spoonfuls is pretty satisfying.
, after dinner (I prefer not to go out during daylight because I have this lingering case of melasma), was that mile and a quarter, a hundred girly pushups, and some whole body calisthenics, which I find to be actually pretty effective if you're really disciplined about maintaining the right kind of muscle tension throughout your body. And then I got interrupted by a hungry baby at about 23 minutes of exercise and then fell in and out of sleep on the couch after feeding her.
Babies. They interrupt everything.
The Man got some good news at work today so we're thinking about going out to dinner to celebrate.
How many Robinsons does it take to pick a place to eat?
More than two, apparently.
Back tomorrow,
shinae
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