I'm back in the saddle (with 3-day saddle sores) of the gym routine.
I'm sore. I'm tired. I have such a desperately bad sense of myself that I'm doing this so I can finally look at myself stark naked in the mirror and approve of all the things that are deemed, unapproved.
Except I'm the ectomorph, hitting his mid-30s stride. Having ridden the wave of slender-neutrality all my life, the little bump growing fatty on my stomach is causing me to gag. Bring on the treadmills, the dumbbells and the super expensive but I'll buy them for your birthday anyway from a store that claims to have a ridiculous and unexplainable ('Uh, I don't know, that's just the policy of every store") nationwide absolutely no-return ever policy, Bosu ball.
I'll stay current on this one.
