That would be pounds.

Had you told me I’d be swinging this thing and do one legged dead lifts with it, I never would have believed you.

I’d have laughed. Very loudly.

With a saay whaaaaat, ooooohhh look on my face.

Who, me?

Kind of like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I would have wanted the security of the life saver with me. I kept wanting to say life jacket just now. But it’s not a life jacket.

Life savers make me think of … well, eating a life saver. Is that what these things are called or what … have I totally lost it?

Anyway.

I would have wanted it there so you know, it could literally save me from breaking a foot or any other number of disastrous things I thought of that could happen when you go to swing a weight that totals more than half of what your mother weighs.

Whose mother accomplishes that anyway?

I don’t stand a cold chance day in hell where I’ll ever be able to say, “oh yes, yes, that? That’s half my total weight. Maybe a little less than.”

Then again, I wouldn’t put it past me to do it if it meant making myself feel better.

Come on, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Reminds me of the {amazing} Veuve Christmas Maman and I spent on Sanibel Island.

Veuve because … all we did was sit and drink Veuve all Christmas long day and night. On the beach.

Of course, Maman, the whole time {despite many glasses of Champs}, was actually worried we were going to get in trouble for consuming an open beverage.

Seriously? This was a resort. Not a police state.

But I digress.

Getting to Sanibel proved to be a number of odd flights for me. I got one of those great, cheapy last minute flights, where I had to switch four times.

By the time I made it to Tampa, I was ready for the beach. And the Veuve.

I waited around for my flight to be called over the loud speaker. Instead it was over the loud desk.

They asked everyone to come forward who would be on the prop plane, i.e. puddle jumper. Oh, Lord, have mercy.

Passenger capacity? 10.

10! WTF. Which, by the way, included the pilot.

We, all 10 of us, were asked to give our weight and the weight of our suitcase.

I lied on both numbers.

What woman ever gives her real weight?

My suitcase didn’t make it on, but I did.

Success.

With that said, do I actually look like I could be some Amazonian chick who can throw down with the best of them?

Hell no.

But I am and you’d never know it and I love it.

I’m proud of my strength, stability and body.

Instead of criticizing any part of my-self, I’m aiming to embrace, love, respect it.

Nothing like some kettlebell swings to help induce a little self love.

Or self righteousness.

It does that, too.