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I just spent 28 minutes arguing with my body. About whether or not we had to shower before work.

I mean, we showered after the gym last night. Let’s sleep in.

But that was only a cursory shower. We should actually clean all the places.

Why? Who are we trying to impress at work? And what the hell does cursory mean?

We are a single woman. We can not afford to be a disgusting mess in any venue.

Have you met us? We’re a disgusting mess in most places outside of work. And what the hell does venue mean?

It went back and forth like this for 28 minutes. Which was the amount of time that I’d like to have slept in. But instead I was arguing with myself. About how long it’s been since I washed my hair.

I’m just so tired. (And yes, Rogue. I’ve taken my iron pills, like, at least two out of the last 78 days now.)

I didn’t want to go to the gym last night.

But this mess rolled across my Facebook feed last week.

Along with about 18 other missing persons.

And J-Vicious was threatening to kick me out of the group. Because he thinks saying mean things is my love language.

Which, fine. It is.

But also, I hate HATE being excluded.

And my sweet, loving LL told me she missed me yesterday morning.

Plus, maybe Spartan Beast/Sprint weekend is less than a month away…

So I found my way back yesterday. To PlayFITStayFIT.

For the full body class.

Which was probably the right one.

Because it’s been a solid three weeks since I’ve done anything other than run or hike. And I try to keep this mess in relatively good shape. Because single. But every single part of me could spin wildly out of control if I neglect it for too long.

Although, if I just let it all go, then I could probably just stop caring about showering, too. And then I could sleep in every morning…

The bullying started the moment I walked in.

Some smart comments about ghosting. And laziness. And someone even suggested that a bird had built an entire nest in my hair.


You’re gonna insult a girl’s hair?

But then they got distracted by a tire. The way apes sometimes do.


So, sometimes when J-V is too lazy to assemble an actual workout for us, he makes us play poker to design our own.

And I don’t play poker. So I don’t know if three sevens is a good hand in poker. Or what even a hand is. But in PFSF, three sevens means…

Hold on. I’ve got to go math…

120 ball slams.

My shoulders, y’all.

I haven’t used those in a minute.

And then the next hand? Three fours. Three freakin fours. Three damn fours meant I had to push and pull this stupid thing up and down the unnecessarily grippy floor.

For a lot of times. I’m not mathing this one. It was just a LOT.

And maybe I rolled it a few times. When J-V wasn’t looking. Because he had taken my phone privileges. And was busy doing this.

150 photos. I had to delete at least 150 photos from my phone last night.

Such. A. Child.

But his childishness works. I am motivated by attention and insults .

Which explains so much about my dating life.

I should probably consider counseling.

So everything hurts.

And I might go back for leg/arm day tonight.

If I can get Fall Risk and LL to go.

Because it’s way more fun when J-V has to keep track of yelling at all three of us.

Because I’m pretty sure that mean words are also Fall Risk’s love language. Maybe not LL. She may prefer nice men. But it seems to work in the gym, so…

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