I spent the shank of midday yesterday sleeveless in saturated sunshine (is that a bit of Saxon verse, do you think?), finishing the herb bed that I guess David the Diva isn’t likely to do for me any time soon. This wrecked my game leg, which will be dicey for a long time and doesn’t like random abrupt movements, like whacking my lethal new root-cutting shovel.
When something hurts I go to the gym. This was a tough nut to crack though and finally after some cycling and bridging and the like, I decided to pack it in and started to pull plates from a Smith machine that someone had left loaded, so I could hang off the bar upside down, which always stretches things out nicely.
One of the Cute Engineer’s workmates spotted me hobbling and stepped over to yank the plate on the opposite side. “You gonna do the Opossum?” he said, and moved the bench from under the bar too. Gallant fellow.
I had been wondering what to call that series of moves; I was never quite happy with “batwoman,” which makes it sound gender restricted. Apparently the rest of the peeps in the gym have figured it out, they just hadn’t gotten around to telling me.
I had thought of “The Sloth,” but it doesn’t quite fit the circumstance. I’m often tempted to sing the song, though.