I hate my scale.
He is REALLY such a bastard. I can't even tell you what he said about me today! He said I weighed... like, well... a totally unacceptable number. I gave him a chance to tell me something different - to apologize for perhaps mis-speaking. But he had nothing else to say. Just the same old shit, over and over and over again.
So I laced up my shoes and went outside for a morning 5 mile run. Fuming, I dashed through the fog. And after I settled into a rhythm - meaning, I finally calmed down a bit - I began wondering if perhaps I had taken what he said out of context.
But I got home, and after a run, my scale basically said the exact same thing to me.
SHIT!
Strict training, here I come...
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My life so far can be broken down into five distinct phases: 1) Childhood, 2) Adolescence, 3) College, 4) Washington DC, and now, San Francisco... PHASE FIVE.
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1 comment:
Of all the machines that are in the gym (weight machines, treadmills, steppers, bikes, etc. etc. etc. -- the one I hate the most is the f-ing SCALE.
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