Cynthia

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"Cynthia-  I saw you checking out my man when he bent down.  I saw you smiling his way, and come over to talk to him.  I considered punching you in the face, but before I had a chance, you kicked my ass and yelled at me."

Oh Cynthia.  How is it that you manage to make Mondays come faster each week?  Hmmm?

And no matter how much I would love to wallow in my sorrow of job-loss, you beckon me from my jammies and comfort food.

I dress. I grab a bottle of water. And I head for the gym.

Lloyd and I have been taking your Monday night class for several weeks now.  We hate it.  We love it.  We hate it.  We love it.  We can't decide.

You make us get so low with those weights, and you always keep us guessing.

The reps keep a'comin.  There's hardly time to breathe.

Push-ups always seemed significantly easier in junior high P.E.  Has the exercise changed over the years?  Why would I prefer to fall on my face than lift my body and more times?  That can't be a good thing.

Or can it?

Cynthia, I love how you've whittled away my arms.  I like to do the gun show for anyone who will watch.  Usually, the audience is my cat.  And although he isn't saying it, I know he's thinking DAYUM!

And you love my husband.  I guess maybe you love us all.  But how can you not love that face of his and how he always manages to fly left when everyone else is flying right?

The first thing you ever said to him was "Good hustle out there." and he glowed for the rest of the evening.

Last night you corrected his form by gently touching his knee.  I get a kick out of it.  Don't worry.  I'm not madatcha. 

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