Queen of the Gym

If you follow the TV show "Bones" you are familiar with the phrase, "King of the Lab." It means you've risen to the top; that at least temporarily, you've done the best job of anyone at your work. You get the T-shirt.


I am officially proclaiming M "Queen of the Gym" for her extraordinary work with me last Tuesday, after which I have been sorer that I ever remember being at any time and for any reason in my entire freakin' life. It hurts to get out of the car. It hurts to bend. It hurts to roll over in bed. It hurts to sit quietly in a chair with my arms folded, being reverent. She has definitely found some of my muscles that must have been wondering, "What about me? Don't you care enough to abuse me, too?" She cares. Passionately.

Also, I am officially changing her blog persona from this:

To this:



Don't thank me, M. You earned it, fair and square.

I also have to just mention that M seems to have her own favorite torture device, sort of like J has "drop sets." M likes lunges. A lot. Apparently she also likes seeing old fat guys fall over.

This is what a lunge looks like when someone who is strong and thin and graceful does it:



And this is what it looks like when I do it:


That's what it feels like, too.

Well, I have to go get ready for my hour with M. Should be fun. I'll bet she can't wait to show me "The ATOMIC Lunge." Can't wait.