Just say no to the “French Press.” Or my abs are going to flab.
I hate pain.
Most because pain hurts.
Here’s my problem.
Even in small Southern towns we have gyms. Actually in Madison we have two gyms. We must be the cut-est small town around.
I belong to the Madison Fitness Center where a very disturbing competion has erupted.
Battle of the Abdominal Crunch.
Seems things start with our dear Beverly, personal trainer.
Somehow a contest started amongst her trainees with the abdominal crunch machine.
I wanted no part in it.
I love a sick (sic) pack as much as anyone…
But now that I’ve obtained a certain age, I make sure any bikinis I wear are worn in the comfort of completion isolation. Or on beaches where I know no soul and everyone with a pitcher of frozen margarita is my BFF for the day…
Beverly told me of this competition for the most crunches that had developed betwixt some of my friends.
The record was 120.
The red cape waved. The gauntlet thrown.
I sat down and did 134.
Less than 24 hours later got a message on Facebook from someone that she’s done 145.
Super.
Then I arrive to my workout on Tuesday to hear my neighbor had crunched out 170.
So like a lamb I was lead to the “French Press”.
See that’s part of this thing too. You have to pick a name for the device of torture.
Waffle maker, pancake maker and so on. After noticing a kitchen appliance theme trending I went with the French Press.
So I sat down and started. Just because I love Beverly and I’m not going to be some Fuddy Duddy who can’t get into the spirit of a little good-natured, gym competition.
And crunched out 200. I wear the Ab Queen crown for now.
Poo.
I hated every second of it because I am a Fuddy Duddy who doesn’t like pain.
That’s it.
Next time I get a text that someone has done 6 billion and sixty — I shall blow them a kiss.
BTW ~ what’s sure favorite abdominal workout now that swimsuit season is a mere two months away?
