I’ve started to feel gravity’s pull a little more than I would like.
The child has noticed.
Today, while waiting for the plumber to install the hot water heater the child had decided that I need to get busy and “get buff”.
Buff. Where the heck did “buff” come from?
I have never been buff. I would not know buff if I got run over with buff. But she has decided that I be buff.
“You can’t drink any more Diet Coke Dad, and no more fats!”, she exclaimed as drug me downstairs to do… exercises.
She was my little personal fitness trainer and I was her student.
We talked about going on Mommy’s Peleton and we decided that would be a bad idea because we both don’t know how it works. So, we stuck with the weights:
First, I lifted the 2lb dumbells, and then the 5lb and then my little strong fitness intstructor showed ME how to lift a 15 lb weight. Think about it - that’s about a third of her weight.
If I had to lift a third of my weight, I would be under the thing and would not be able to lift it, I am sure and probably be calling 911.
After the weights, my little fitness crazed offspring made me do push-ups.
PUSH-UPS!. You guys, here’s my day: Wake - kid breakfast - school for her/uber driving for me. - come home, eat, clean and play a bit on the computer at night writing about being told I am too fat and I need to exercise. Dad doesn’t have any time for exercise. No, scratch that - Dad doesn’t want to make time for exercise.
Dad likes donuts. Also, Pie.
One would think that after the push-ups my little instructor would have given me a break, but nope - then she brought out the hula hoop. Let’s just say that there’s no hula-hoop olympics in my future and leave it at that.
After the hula-hooping, Dad needed a coffee break so I fired my personal trainer and she went back to her tablet and Dad went back to cleaning.
Later tonight we got on the topic of what we did today and how Mommy is NOT fat and that I should do what she is doing because she looks great! (she does). The child should have stopped there but out of the mouths of babes:
“Dad, you’re not REALLY fat. You’re just fat-ish” she told me.
Fat-ish. Humph.
I prefer calling my waistline my “ab protector”. It has a better ring to it than “fat-ish”
At least I’m still standing. :)
Until Next Time,
TH and Co.