So, let me just say that that thing called Fitness Class should actually be called The Class That Throws You Into a Fatal Chokehold And Slowly Kills You. Because that is what happened yesterday.
So yes, I am writing to you from the Land of the Dead. Trust me. I exaggerate not. My arms, they will not move, my legs are like rubber, and I feel like I walked out onto a busy street and got hit by two milk trucks, a semi full of lobsters, and about 30 motorcycles, who obviously are part of a gang (because why else would they have run me over, and why else would the leader of the group have a monkey on his shoulder?) If that didn't make sense, don't worry. I'm dead, remember? Dead people don't make a lot of sense at the best of times.
I actually woke up the next morning and was not as sore as I thought I would be, by which I mean I could actually move my limbs without screaming out in excruciating, ear-blistering pain. Which, to me, means I'm actually in better shape than I thought I was, and should stop whining so much. You're welcome.
I'm still very unsure of myself with the whole school thing because it's all so very new to me. Let's face it, I haven't been in school full-time since the 80s. That's a long time, guys. Most of the students in my class weren't even born then, and could be my children. Well, maybe not quite, but probably.
And, as Mr. Handsome explained to me yesterday as I lay prostrate across the couch, writhing in pain, this is why I will have one helluva time keeping up with these ragamuffins in fitness, because I am no longer a spring chicken! Oh, right. Thanks for the reminder. I actually didn't quite realize that that was why I felt like my insides were about to fall out of my orifices. Apparently, as you get older, it gets more difficult to do things. Who knew?
Now, excuse me while I take some more Tylenols, a codeine, and wrap myself up in my misery, in preparation for my final class of the week: Lab! Whereby I get to lift people and stretchers, and all with a great big smile on my face!