Yesterday my elliptical trainer met a death. I’d like to say it was untimely, but it really wasn’t since it was a.) several years old, b.) about $100 originally- hardly top of the line, and c.) used by me, who has a tendency to not take care of anything other than my skin and hair.
This afternoon I was faced with the task of setting up my new one. (Thank you Amazon.com Prime free trial. No, I will not be renewing at the end of the month, but I really appreciate you sending me large packages in forty-eight hours for free!) My brother was home. Clearly he could help me.
An hour later, he had completely assembled it.
I had picked at my nails. I had emotionally scarred him by talking about how I always thought I was really well endowed but hey! turns out I was just heavy. I had played on my iPhone. And I had attempted to bench press a pitiful 45 lbs without killing myself.
Digression: I work out. I can do real, not-girl push-ups. How is it than I can’t bench press the weight of a small child? I babysat for a three-year-old last summer, and I dragged that kid all over the place. And she was usually kicking and screaming about her penguin Fred. HOW IS THIS DIFFERENT?
(Okay. I never tried to lift Zoe over my head. Never really thought about it.)
(But seriously, 45 lbs? That’s just sad.)
So. Thank you, John. You are clearly more responsible and possessing of way more upper body strength than I am.
Although I am a delicate young lady, so that’s not really my fault.
(I think I may have said that right after I finished my spiel about how No! You don’t understand how weird it is to go through the first twenty-one years of your life thinking you have really huge…assets…and then realize that you don’t! I mean, we’re talking major ontological change here! And…then he kind of just stared at me like, “How is the 17-year-old boy the most mature one in the room?”)
(Touche, John. Touche.)