I try to run a few miles at least once a week. This is outside my weekly bout with floor ball down at the hall. All this is meant to keep me young, handsome, and lean. Hah. It’s not working, is it? I have a runner’s body, not a hunk’s. And that’s made me decide to sign up to a gym and do some body building.
Yesterday I tried this, and my body is not stronger and more chiseled. It’s a wreck. I have aches and pains everywhere. Instead of a young, virile exemplar of a man, I’m ready for a walker, and I move two inches per hour. Going down the stairs is a chore.
My so-called husband laugh at me. Mock me. His heartless cruelty knows no bounds. Hah. I shall remember that when he’s wheezing after fifty yards when he follows me out on a run. I can sprint like a gazelle through this asphalt jungle. He needs to sit down and rest after a minute. But… he’s got the muscle hunk look. There’s a shallow, shallow reason I fell for him.
I will try not to move too much today, and I just hope that I will recover by next Monday. Then the fun starts again, and I’ll have to go back to being a student. Actually, we’ve already started since the social life has ticked into life. We’re having a formal this weekend at my faculty.
I hope that a few days of tea-drinking and book-reading in the sofa will cure the bout of insanity of yesterday. I should know better than to succumb to fashionable body image demands. Real men sip tea and read a novel, blast music into their ears, and don’t spend hours lifting inscrutable bits of metal for no purpose at all.