So tonight as I was pumpin' to 33 Miles on the Roman chair, this tattooed home-from-college kid with ginormous biceps said, "Hey lady, how long you gonna hang out on that thing?" "As long as it takes," I said *smiling,* planting my road-mapped legs a few more times. Garmin's got nothing on me. My iPod wasn't loud enough to drown out his "maybe next year" to his 'buff and cut' friend. I ignored him, finished my reps, and went about my business. But I was watching him as he got on the chair. I had done 80 reps with a 4.5 kg plate. He did 25 and he was dying. I counted. Carefully. I don't have huge biceps or barbed wire tattoos, but I smoked him on the chair. Besides, Sonny Boy, I know your mother. And your Father. So chill. I'm gunning for 90 next time, and I hope you're counting. And I'll have you know, I'm more than twice your age. I forgive you for treating me like chopped liver, because you just haven't reached the point in your life yet when you realize it's not about you. You will. I just hope you glanced at your forearm, saw that tattooed cross, and thought about how much more He had to lift for you than you will ever lift for Him. Because that's what I thought about when I was on about # 65. Perhaps you were there just to remind me of that. So thanks for that. For sure.
Tea tonight: Heavenly Tea Passion Fruit Green