|Clearly, George made a deal with the Devil!|
This getting old thing is dumb. Someone should have warned me. Over vacation, doing nothing but relaxing with my family, sitting by warm fires and watching crap TV all day, I would wake up in the morning sore. Not just a little sore, but full on, work-out-five-hours-a-day-grunt-lifting-the-heavy-weights-while-beefcakes-yell-encouragement sore!
Yeah, that a thing.
Part of the problem might have been the complete sedentary lifestyle I adopted over the past two months while working on TO BE NAMED book three of the Flames of Perdition series. No matter the flu shots and the multi-vitamins and the happy thoughts, I tend to pick up whatever the boys get, and multiple it by 10.5.
Why 10.5—because I care.
|My everything is sore!|
The other part, and this is the part that’s is 45% amusing and 55% depressing, is that I’m getting old(er). Bank tellers still (pretend) to flirt with me and say I’m only in my 30s on my birthday, and that’s nice enough in a semi-creepy, Big Brother kinna way. While Indiana Jones hits the nail on the head—it’s not the years, it’s the mileage—the fact of the matter is more years tend to make more mileage harder to take.
So it’s now or never (or next week). Cardio-kickboxing in the morning, just like the old days. Running in the afternoon, as I’ve been doing 87% of the year. Yoga in the evenings. Or, as Toby Keith put it—I ain't as good as I once was / But I'm as good once as I ever was.