These are the words my spin instructor said to me in the morning in the middle of a heart destroying work out.
Before I could restrain myself from the avalanche that was about to tear itself free from my endorphin spiked (and incomprehensibly inflicted with allusions of nonsensical grandeur) mind and stick a repulsive gym sock in my mouth, those twelve fateful words poured out like verbal diarrhea.
“So what you’re really trying to say is I’m fat, aren’t you?”
I know, I know. It was like watching a train derail itself and crash into some poor unsuspecting civilian (that would be me, just in case you’re wondering) in slow mo. Complete with the package of all the guts and intestines squirting out from inappropriate body parts. Even incarnating my best version of a wounded puppy dog expression didn’t save face.
She-Hitler (as I have nicknamed her) gave me one dry, uncommitted expression & ordered me to drop and give her 20.
Moral of the story? My mouth is the one part of my body that does NOT need any more exercise.