By all accounts I ought to be a Shark aka a member of the rough-and-tumble neighborhood box, CrossFit Adaptation. Directly across the street, home to Thick Rick and his crew, fostering Ms. ART herself, and as grey, black, red, and big as my own dear Trident. Plus, their music is good.
Not that ours isn’t. It’s just, sometimes I think our music would be better suited to a club than to a garage. Do I want to boom boom or do I want to lift heavy weights? The latter please. One should ask a new father of twins how he feels about this…it’s hilarious but not fit for written record. In any case, music isn’t enough for me to switch camps. “Once you’re a jet you’re a jet through and through.”
A is busy at the gym lately. It’s a bit hard to get a word in edgewise with his emailing and his organizing on top of his regular being there. Granted, it should be hard for me to get a word out at all amidst my studying. That’s not quite happening. I think I need to get a little more busy.
Biology is fascinating. Did you know we can save babies from certain mental retardations if we simply supplement their diets with a specific protein? Amazing.
Boom is such a good curler. (She’s sleepy.) I am not a good right-sider. Not only do my right ribs pop out, not only is my right levator scapulae on fire, not only is my right rhomboid minor muscle way too minor, but I was told today that my poor little right foot looks a bit lame when I run, pronating and rotating in as my left side stably strides onward. Come on right side! Get with the program!
Who should I see? Doctor, doctor give me the news! ART is great for a couple of hours. Lacrosse balls and ice and heat are fierce weapons but they prove impotent against this triage of dysfunction. I missed my chance for personal attention from KStar, if I even had a chance because he’s a little to cool for school.
Well, time for me to get back to being too school for cool.