Have you ever felt like various parts of your body are at war with each other when you exercise? That was not the case this morning; they were in cahoots. It was a big dance party in my torso at 6 am.
It started well—the heart began with a nice baseline (thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud), and then the lungs chimed in (nts nts nts nts). The feet tapped out a snappy little melody.
But all too soon, this party took a turn for the douche. The stomach, drunk on peanut butter, started grumbling and stumbling about, like a dj who thinks his slurred shouting into the mic can improve a set. The side was in deep potassium withdrawal (just out of rehab), and it broke out the dreaded club siren, building to a deafening pitch. And just when you thought that was as bad as it gets, the ovaries blared the dreaded air horn.
Please just settle down and let me run, everyone—there's a new dj in town tomorrow morning.
... and the DJ ain't your momma!
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