Our eldest daughter interrupts the pushup set in search of taco sauce. She is tonight’s short order cook. The freaking dog won’t stop licking sweat off my forehead as seconds tick slower and slower during a prolonged plank set. -- ”TAKE THIS TIME FOR YOU!” Constant encouragement from the exercise televangelist. “YOU CAN DO ANYTHING YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO!” -- The wife and I are executing decent Warrior II poses during our second week of Jillian Michaels at home work outs. Then a nerf something of the sort whizzes under my extended arm. And that damn dog is still licking!
One month into the COVID isolation the only part of life not on pause is my weight.
Call it a hunch, but I strongly believe that I knew way back last fall of the pending pandemic and outright panic run on the super markets this spring. Or call it lucky laziness. Either way, I already tacked on an extra supply of gut cushion coming off of a spectacular Hallow-Giving-Noel season.
I am the Nostradamus of flesh expansion… storing up my Quarantine-15 weight back in January when most people thought the Coronavirus was a Tijuana hangover.
These days the battle of the bulge is an evolving exercise regimen resembling a Norman Rockwell painting commissioned shortly after immerging from a decade long isolation with his progeny.
“IF YOU KNOW YOUR WHY, THE HOW WILL BE EASY!”
