I have been feeling a little chunkier in my clothes than I would like — winter, canceling out the luscious sweaty sunny yardwork that I depend on for a buzz in the summer, and probably screwy hormones. So I was casting about for something to get me into fat burning mode more of the time and stumbled across this sucker at the place where I bought my last batch of lifting gear. (They sent me a discount code and everything.) This is what I call lingerie.
Twenty pounds of lead slugs that hug you while you’re walking, crankin’ up the furnace. It just arrived (mine’s a violent shade of orange).
Only problem is, last night I stumbled across something else – it was a complicated pirouette that involved a cat, the stove and the wastebasket — and did this. Again.
Mother f***er. Same damn toe.
It should be okay for heel-to-toe speedwalking by about Tuesday — the only thing that really hurts is trying to drop to the opposite knee (so I don’t, at least not without hanging on to something). Not sure if I broke it or just sprained the hell out of it, but there’s nothing to be done in either case, except put on arnica and tape it up to the next one over (I learned that back in my college days, when I executed a third-base slide down the hall directly into a footlocker. Don’t ask). And probably I should move the wastebasket.