The Wagon

I hate three syllable words.  Actually I just hate one: ex-er-cise.  Like most people, I get on a bandwagon, work out for a bit, then life gets in the way and I fall off that wagon like a drunk college girl on a Halloween hayride.

But now I’m unemployed, so no more excuses!  No more, “I’m too busy to work out” or “I’m too tired”… no more, I say, no more!  In the interest of one of my new goals – focusing more on me, with a capital M-E, I decided to start a new work out program.

Despite exhaustion after coming back from a blogging conference, I started Day One yesterday.  Yay me.  The work out killed my calves and made stair walking next to impossible, but I made it and hobbled back for more today.

Day Two.  Today’s work out was easier on me than yesterday.  In fact, nearing the end of the workout I was feeling pretty good about myself…feeling full of swagga.  Yes, I said it – swagga.  After all, I worked out with extra weights around my waist.  I wore that muffin top like a badge of honor, an ode to days of cupcakes gone by.  Mmmm.  Cupcakes.

Dammit, cupcakes always distract me.  

Anyhoo, as I was saying, I was feeling full of swagga during my cool down stretch. As I folded myself into a downward dog position, I daydreamed of the future when I can run on the beach without thigh chaffing.  Doesn’t that sound fabulous?  And. Then. It. Happened.  Right in the middle of a good dream.

I grunted.  And breathed heavily.  And then grasped at my lower back with my right hand.  To anyone else it probably sounded like good sex.  But sadly, it was just a slightly pudgy, muffin top wearing, over sweaty, near 41 year old – who just threw out her back.  On Day Two of her work out.

What.  The.  Fuck.  Really Karma?  What did I do to you?  I was ready to be on a roll.  I was on the wagon.  ON. THE. DAMN. WAGON.  I claimed that wagon as my bitch – and you…you come around and kick me off the wagon.  

And I’m not even drunk.

But I’m pissed.

So I sit hear with a bag of frozen peas strapped to my back, tossing back Ibuprofen like Skittles and dreaming of cupcakes.  After all, they seem to be much safer than that certain three syllable word mentioned earlier.

For now, I’m sticking with cupcakes.  But no worries, moderation is the key and I’ll eventually get back on that wagon.

Like a Boss.  A cupcake eating, muffin top wearing B-O-S-S.