After a month of construction, hauling 200-lb plus H-carts of books all over the store, banging in metal shelves and moving endcaps from one end of the store to the other until I’ve dropped into bed every night, so exhausted that I’ve dubbed the condition “manager dead-eye”– much less just moving boxes of books around in the back as part of my regular job– oh, that and the walking five to seven miles I do every day, pushing of V-carts and rearranging tables and shelves and other displays full of books with books that can be paperback Harlequins or coffee-table Home Decorating pr0ns (those suckers are heavy). I’m eating like a trucker when I get time to eat at all, even as it takes me an hour sometimes to get all the food down. And still, I’m down to 135 lbs. Sigh. I sense a “Skeletor” nick-name coming on.
One of my (female) co-managers has already pantsed me in the back room (at least with a “Woo!” for my lacy boy shorts) and arranged a shopping date to get me some new jeans. “Stop wearing stuff that’s so baggy! We need to get you some skinny hot jeans!” Yeah. They were 10s, normal for someone who’s 5’6″. On the flip side, she’s the same one who buys me vanilla milk-shakes and sweet-potato fries and cheeseburgers on gluten-free buns, so I know the teasing comes from a well-intentioned place.
But after I went for a head-clearing, emotion-cleansing run Sunday, when I found I could run two miles in the time it used to take me to run one, and then did some yoga, I did discover something else nifty.
I. Can. Do. Twenty. Push-Ups.
I have never been able to do a push-up. Ever.
Screw Skeletor. I’m going for She-Ra. She even didn’t have a pink costume.