Sous Chef and I have just finished a delicious dinner; baked chicken roll-ups with goat cheese and a simple parmesan-sprinkled side of pasta. We’ve cleaned up the dishes, and Sous Chef is settled on the couch. He’s so cute lying there, so I can’t resist turning sideways to shimmy in between the couch and the coffee table to sit beside him.
And just like that, with the tiniest of accidental nudges (courtesy of my rear end), CRASH goes his favorite beer glass, which had been sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Shards of glass everywhere. Homemade ginger soda dripping over the edges of the table. A frozen, palpable silence from the both of us.
“Wow,” I finally say. “My ass really is getting strong.”
It’s true. Some magical switch has been flipped in my body, and all of a sudden I’m noticing my butt for all the right reasons. It looks better in jeans. It doesn’t jiggle as much as it used to. Sous Chef can’t keep his hands off of it, marveling at the firming up and defining that’s taking place.
It must be some sort of combination of green tea, crawling, and pushing heavy torture devices around. Plus, Chimpy and I are working on squats now – we’re talking full-on, heels-down, ass-to-the-grass kinda squats, which Chimpy happens to be really good at.
Today’s session went well, ass-wise; squats, dead lifts, push-ups, dead bugs, etc. I was feeling pretty bootylicious, if I do say so myself.
And then Chimpy went and put me on the g.d. stationary bike.
It wasn’t that bad at first, until he told me to pedal faster, and I couldn’t. I wanted to, but between the squats and the dead lifts, my legs had had it. As much as I tried, I just couldn’t get it up; my jelly legs were having none of it.
Enter that damn negative self-talk from Part 3.
Nothing frustrates me more than when my heart and mind and soul want to do something, but my body won’t let me do it. And that’s where we ended up today, on that damn bike. Chimpy right next to me, at first pushing me, then encouraging me, then comforting me. And there I was, at first angry, then embarrassed, then sad, then too damn exhausted to be anything but breathless and nauseated.
I didn’t stop, though. I stayed on that godforsaken thing for the full nine minutes that Chimpy had allotted, and I gave it what I did have. You’re not going to beat me, you stupid bike. You’re not even a real bike; you don’t actually go anywhere. Stupid bike.
I guess my ass isn’t the only thing that’s getting stronger.