Netflix and Bourbon FTW

There exists in the gym a thing that lurks silently and unassumingly in a corner.  Probably near the water fountain or some exercise mats.  Not the dumbbells or free weights or the Cybex machines with the straps that are across between some sexual training device and a medieval torture machine.  No friends, I am speaking of the medicine ball.

Yes, this small ball filled with some sort of granular pain.  It mocks you with small numbers like 8 or 12.  Who can't lift 12 pounds?  I found out after multiple reps that I am the guy that can't lift 12 pounds. I had my second personal training session this morning at 7AM.  It went well.  If well means rivers of sweat and gasping.

I realized while I was seated and tossing this medicine ball to the trainer with my skinny arms, and almost hitting some poor bastard doing chest presses in the head, that I need a back story.  I need a helmet.  See, the only way that this level of weakness is alright is if it follows some sort of tragic accident.  Or maybe I was teaching kids to read in sub-saharan Africa and caught Dutch Elm Disease or something.

Because when I'm dripping all over the ground and struggling with my pastel colored medicine ball, I can't be like "This is all me, baby!  Netflix and bourbon for the win!!!"