Concrete is Really Hard. Who Knew?

My friend ML invited me to her gym this morning. Despite the early time (9:00 is early for the unemployed), I accepted her invitation. I wasn't so gung-ho when the alarm went off, but I told myself I'd be glad I went. Yeah, right. I should know better than to listen to myself.

When I showed up with my bottle of water, ML remarked how smart I am. Umm... okay. She suggested I warm up on the treadmill because once the class starts, they "hit it hard."

Except at first it wasn't. Jog up and down the gym, woo hoo. Then run sideways. Oh, look at me! Look how fast and energetic I am! Oh no, don't look at me falling! Yes, I tripped over my own feet and fell on my knee. On the concrete floor. Audibly. Because I'm clumsy. I get asked how I can walk in four-inch heels. It's easy people, I'm walking. Walking is the key word here, not running in odd foot patterns.

It hurt. I've got a nice bruised scrape. It hurt for the rest of the workout. The rest of the workout hurt. I thought I would either pass out or throw up. Or puke while passed out, that would be super pretty.

I don't think I'll be mobile at all tomorrow. If it's not my knee, it will be my butt. Or my abs. Or maybe my back. I'm not sure what got the most abuse, as it was more of an all-over hurt while it was happening.

ML is crazy. She does this four times a week and is about 20 years older than me. She was my role model before, now she is my freaking hero.

Even if I'm cursing her tomorrow. Her and the concrete. And the inventor of concrete.