And I think she is trying to kill me…

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Auntie Megan is a competative weightlifter.  I am not.  So when she said, “Hey Sandie, let’s go find a gym and work out.”  I should have run, far far away.  But no, I said “okay”.  Because I am an idiot.

2 hours later , battered, sweat soaked, hardly able to lift my legs, or arms, or head, I dragged my near-corpse across the parking lot and collapsed into the front seat of the beloved Honda minivan. 

Megan, bounces out of the gym, and says: “that was great, what time are we going tomorrow?”

Tomorrow? 

2pm.

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About Sandie

A little background: A mother of 3, two boys and a girl. Married young to a good man. No longer young, but he is still a good man. Grew up in the suburbs of Minneapolis, lived several years in small town Alaska, spent a couple years in the city of Madison, currently residing not too far from down town Anchorage. Drink a crazy amount of coffee. Fiercely loyal to my friends. Truly rabid in my defense of family. Beyond thankful that my God loves me enough to allow me to doubt and question.

4 responses »

  1. What happened to all of your Star Tribune weightlifting muscles? You even got paid for that. Now we have to pay to join a gym to sweat and ache.

    I thought of you this morning when I came to work and saw the receptionist organizing the Star Tribune and NYT stacks.

  2. Nice! My lifting partner James came by last night and demonstrated some very heavy dumbbell rows while I did some overhead squats and front squats. My weights were, lamentably, rather modest.

    I tried some of those dumbbell rows in the manner that he was doing them about a week-and-a-half ago, just before we went on vacation. It took the better part of the trip for my lower back to feel better.

    Have fun at the gym, and remember … it’s all fun and games until someone pops an eyeball out or sproings a disk off the far wall of the room.

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