Re-evaluating Goals, Or, Upping the Ante

 You know when you go to the doctor because you are sick, or more likely with someone like me, you did something stupid and hurt yourself?  They ask you to rate your pain on a scale to one to ten, or, if you're a kid they ask you to point to the degree of sad face you are.

11.  Or, more accurately, 11-million.

Average Joe and I had a conversation on friday-ish about changing my goals--because as you remember I was supposed to sleep well, and well, not jiggle so much.

What I didn't realize is that he would, in fact, take that conversation to heart, and go medieval on my ass today.  And I mean that seriously -- he went medieval...on...my ass.

 It was a leg day, after all.

By the time he had finished, I could barely walk--even after interrupting the work-out to tell him I had an interview tomorrow and would therefore be wearing heels.  How bad you ask?

Photo Credit

A bit scary considering my legs are now jello, but it's all about appearances in interviews, and in my line of work. Don't worry there are some tasteful slacks that cover much of those cuties, and mine are leather, not suede.   I do, after all, live in Washington, where it rains 9 months out of the year.  Not really--but I like that line from "Sleepless in Seattle."

"Oh," he said, thoughtfully, as I explained I would need to walk tomorrow.  "Well, I guess you're kinda screwed.  Keep going, you have 8 more squats to do, and that last one didn't count since you could talk."

We actually had a philosophical discussion about how many levels of hell there are, mid- lunges.  He insisted on 7, but I went with "Dante's Inferno," and he made me keep working because he said if there are 9, I have to work harder to get down there.

It's icy down there.  And, for traitors, damn it.

Awesome.

I finished the weights with him, but we had planned on doing the weigh in and body fat crap so we could clearly define, in numeric terms, my goals.  His goals, let's be honest.

Well, alright, I am just going to have to kill myself to do 45 minutes on the elliptical.  But, I guess, since I am already dead, I can do it.

"You owe me an hour on the elliptical.  An hour every day from here on out."

What was that?  Are you kidding me?  He must have read it on my face.

"I am not kidding -- and no breaking it up, an hour at once.  If you stop to pee part way through, you start again at zero."

Can't I just get the surgery?