Spending a month in Texas, and not a lot to do on my agenda, I've taken to a hardcore exercise regimen.
I'd started off with jogging but no sooner had I conquered a mile than a vicious detractor reveals the, I'm-sure-completely-fictious fact that doing so on pavement will make your innards (specifically your womb) drop out and trail along the asphalt.
Not being particularly safety-conscious, superstitious, or fixin' to bear children this year or the next, I continue my hazardous jogging. Although I'm beginning to fancy I can feel something slinging around inside.
I'm hoping it's just a stray spleen.
Next, weight-lifting. This is my favorite part because I get to stand in front of a full length mirror with pieces of sweaty metal in my fists and grunt satisfactorily while watching the wiry tendons in my shoulders ripple much like those of a young jungle boys'.
Okay, so reality might look more along the lines of a young, straining, albino bandicoot named Pinky -- but it's just not the mental picture I'm trying to give here.
Besides, given a month, there's no telling what I'm capable of.
The future is plump with promise.