I rolled out of bed at 5:00am, changed out of my pajamas, and pulled on gym shorts and a t-shirt. Told Jack I was going to the gym, which was pointless, because he’s not actually conscious until closer to 8:00am.
Met with a personal trainer who is young enough to be my grandson and works out for a living. The whole workout was one big embarrassment. It wasn’t until ten minutes in that I realized that my t-shirt was tucked into my shorts, so I looked like one of those retired mall walker dudes that wears a fanny pack and talks to himself while doing calf stretches in front of Sears. Trent made me lift weights over my head and do this crazy ab workout which made me wildly aware of how three pregnancies in a row will basically wreck your entire abdomen.
I was in the middle of working some crazy weight contraption when my body was like “Hey, Roo. You know what? This is stupid.” I was shaking and Trent was all, “You’ve got this!” and I was all, “I appreciate your fervor, but I totally don’t. Watch me drop this weight, like, right now.” And he reached over and caught the machine like he was carrying a feather in the palm of his hand and sort of saved my life while I just sweated and panted all over the place. My body was revolting against me. A total fight or flight scenario. And my body was like, let’s roll out, stat.
You know how sometimes you’re at a convenience store, and you just filled up at the pump, but you stop in for one of those giant Arizona iced teas and… if I’m honest, enough snacks to send you into a sugar high followed by a sad, sad, crashing low?
And you’re in line and you imagine what you would do if someone came in and pulled out a gun and tried to rob said convenience store? And you start coming up with plans of action in your head? Like… okay, maybe I’d hide behind that rotating FunYun stand and use my phone to text five of my friends to call the police. “@ gas station on Ocean. Masked guy with gun. Call 911. Not LOLS, totes for reals.” That would be FLIGHT. I think.
Or maybe, the second the guy pulled out his gun, I would instinctively throw my elbow back into his throat, catch him off-guard, grab his gun and then throw him over the counter. The owner would cuff him to the lotto machine (I don’t know, in my head, convenience store owners have handcuffs stashed away just in case.. maybe), and he’d be all “Free Icees until the cops get here!” but I don’t like Icees so I’d ask if I could sub that out for a fountain soda and then he’d be all “No substitutions!” and then I’d say “Hi. I saved your life.”
That would be FIGHT. I think.
You do this whenever you’re in a convenience store, right? Right, Cat?
Yeah, it’s kind of gross.