Day nine: Flex

Just back from something called Tabata? Oh my Buddha! If I have not posted again for several days call someone, anyone will do, and tell them not to ever partake in Tabata. I don’t even know how you spell it, let alone know why people do it.
The only satisfying element was the realisation this mid-life crisis I have planned is timed just right. Forget fit as a butchers dog, I am as fit as a pork scratching, the butchers dog will gobble me up.
Lunge after press-up after squat after burpee after …I feel frail.

Would I have performed better wearing the tight vest that the old chap with vanishing sweaty hair wore? I doubt it. He was not Popeye. Ga ga ga.
But I need the spinach.

I’m off to slumber, I have ordered the crane to lift me in the morning.

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Filed under 2013, 30's, Culture, Writers

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