Rebecca is All of Us

Somewhere between my 7th and 8th beer of the afternoon, when I’m floating in hoppy bliss, not hammered, but maintaining a sold buzz, I come up with ideas.  Strike that.  Not ideas so much as “plans”.  Perhaps not surprisingly, those plans center around “self improvement.”  Sure my kids may have watched Dad imbibe a few on a sunny day so the fact that starting Monday, Dad is going to “do better.”  99% of the time those plans will involve getting fit, healthy and losing that beer gut.  With beer in hand I mentally chart out the next week.  Starting Monday its a mix of cardio, weights, HIT, a vegetable based diet with some grilled chicken and a 30 day sober up period.  I feel there are other like that out there who are with me.  Case in point, Rebecca.

Holy shit, did she go all out.  I’m guessing she had the same epiphany as I, but had greater means, or a higher credit limit.  I can see how it all went down.  Hit a point of relative rock bottom.  Head down to the basement and view the potential fitness oasis you can develop.  Make a wish-list including top of the line treatmiss, dumb bells, shiney barbells as silver as can be. Plates upon plates.  the expectation that one day, your gonna go max bench, load up that bad boy and rip off 5 sets of 5 on your way to single digit BMI.

Then guess what, after a week, you realize you are lifting alone in a windowless basement.  It’s a grimey scene out of “Pumping Iron” except Lou Ferrigno is nowhere to be scene.  You shellled out over 3 grand and the only thing on that barbell is laundry that needs to dry.

Sure you are moving and there is “no space” as the new place but we all get what happened.  Reality barreled right thought expectations like a bull in a china shop, leaving shattered hopes and dreams in its wake.



I can’t tell if the comments  are trolling or not but asking for the price when the price is listed in the ad, will never not be funny to me.

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