Down the street there is a local gym owned by local people. The owner guy has muscles as big as Buicks and I'm not even kidding. There are trophies and statues of big Buick-muscle guys in the window. Where, you ask, is this heading? Just because I'm (ahem) of a certain age with gray hair and collegen-less thighs, or was that cholesterol-less thighs, anyway, I know how to lift weights so back off, mister. Plagued by injuries, our plucky heroine hauled herself up out of the ditch and continued the race, running sideways on her broken ankle....
But wait, I did have a sprained ankle last year and a torn hamstring.
I ventured into the gym with a free ticket for a workout. I even sweated. And I didn't hurt myself on the treadmill like that time (April, you know). It's a very funny story about, um, programming the treadmill incorrectly and flying off the back and landing on my ass ripping a big hole in my shorts AND getting back up on that horse and finishing the workout, goddammit. At a college gym. With college students ignoring me. Mortified, not me. Except when I saw the large hole in my shorts back in the locker room.
So, now I 'go to the gym', as in, "gotta run, I need a workout before I go home." Fortunately, most of the people who go there are normal looking. And it's not all guys. Not that I have anything against guys. They can tend to sometimes take up a lot of room with their bench pressing 5000 pounds and groaning and popping out in rivers of sweat.
I don't care that I'm only lifting 20 pounds. My muscles are puny. But, I tell yah, if a 10# baby is stuck, you should see how strong I can be. Adrenaline is my friend.
And we made 75 jars of grape jelly and it is so purty on the counter. If you lived near me, you'd get some for Christmas. And it's effing good.
I had today off and tomorrow too. I can hardly believe my luck.
Geoffrey is haunting me this year. Don't know why. I can't avenge you, baby brother. It just never goes away, the sadness.