Its Called Supplementing

I’ve been told that I’m not allowed to complain. Or whine. About being sore.

I was also accused of cheating.

Which is absurd.

Because I do not have the energy or motivation required to cheat.

I’m not known for managing even one man’s drama. I sure as fuck ain’t tryin to manage two. Or more.

But Wednesday night.

As I innocently arrived at Leg Day. Like a dedicated client.

I was accused. Of cheating. On my gym. And my trainer.

I did not cheat.

“You cheated.”

I supplemented.

With some kickboxing. And HIIT.

None of which happen at the same time as my PlayFITStayFIT classes.

“Then why weren’t you in class that day?”

Because I’m not a dumbass…

“Because you were cheating.”

I was SUPPLEMENTING.

Look. I like to hit things.

I may be on summer break from school. But I’ve still got both residual stress from last pandemic school year and anticipatory stress from post-pandemic school year coming up.

And also. I can’t afford to sleep on my fitness. I need all the fitnessing I can get.

Y’all just don’t know.

The pandemic wasn’t kind to the forty somethings.

We went to sleep on March 13, 2020. And when we woke up. Every part of our bodies had shifted.

Literally overnight.

Our pants and skirts suddenly stopped managing their way up over our thighs.

Our boobs started spilling out the sides of our bras.

We could no longer button things.

We couldn’t wear freaking buttons.

But I’ve made some headway this summer. By SUPPLEMENTING my workouts. With more workouts.

Which apparently leads everyone to get all smartass. And judgy.

“Ok! Fire hydrants! Here, Sunshine. You need these.”

Wait. Why do I need two bands?

“So you can supplement.”

But they both say heavy. Seems like one would be sufficient.

“You like to supplement. So supplement.”

Smartass.

But I went back. Yesterday. For Arm Day.

Because I have no choice.

Because forty something.

Which led Rogue and Fall Risk to decide that I am not allowed to complain.

Because Thursday nights are also BS HIIT nights.

“She’s doubling up.”

“How does she expect to avoid injury when she’s doubling up like that?”

I don’t.

I’m actually not sure how I’ve avoided it. This summer.

Because I did, like, 15 minutes of push ups. At Arm Day.

I mean, approximately 15 minutes.

I was supposed to spend the 15 minutes doing various forms of push-ups.

“Sunshine! What are you doing??”

I’ve decided to do sets of 5. With 5 minute rest breaks.

“That’s not the workout.”

It feels like the right workout for me.

“Push ups. Now.”

I think I probably won’t come to Full Body tomorrow.

“I think I probably won’t, either.”

Dude. You’re the trainer. You have to be here.

And maybe you wouldn’t be struggling so much if you’d stop choosing the absolute worst bullshit for us to do.

Dude would rather kill himself with limitless stand ups and Arnold presses than to let me have a nice, reasonable workout.

So, I mean, I was tired. My arms and shoulders were tired. By the time I got to BS HIIT class.

And ten minutes into class. BS made us do fucking push ups.

And I started on my toes. Like a good client.

But I got tired, you know? A few seconds in. Because approximately 15 minutes of push ups earlier.

So a few seconds in, I dropped to my knees.

And BS casually kneels down beside me.

“I noticed you started on your toes.”

Yeah…

*looks at my knees*

So…I have to stay on my toes…?”

*nods*

He may seem sweeter. But apparently he’s the same level of asshole that J-Vicious is.

And all I did was look at Rogue. With my eyes trying to say. Can you believe this dude?

But my eyes couldn’t even get the whole sentence out. Before Rogue says, “Nope.”

…I don’t…get to complain…?

“Nope. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Fine. I’ll just be over here. Suffering in silence.

But dammit. I’m gonna be able to button shit when I have to start wearing pants again next month.

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