When you exercise, something happens to your body. Namely, you suffer in unimaginable ways for the sake of being slender and slim, buff and brawny, or trim and tiny. You give up your food, you give up your need to down an entire place of cheese fries within ten minutes . . . make that five . . . and you also assign a time every day in which you perform the following:
- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises
Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.
Not today, buster. Or sister.
What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?
No, not the point here.
I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.
I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.
Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?
I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.
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