I left my will to live on the 18th floor

Sometime ago a coworker and I decided that we would make it our personal mission in life to climb the stairs in our building on a semi-regular basis. We were hoping to ring in the New Year with firmer thighs and lifted bums without having to deal with Suzanne Summers telling us “you’re halfway there!!!” Because I’m sorry Ms. Summers, but I don’t think you earned that bum entirely on your own. In fact, I would bet money that somewhere, in a land where fat goes to die there is a doctor who put his kid through college by helping remove the cush from your tush.

ANYWAY.

Two days ago we finally ran out of excuses and actually did it. I will not even get into how hard it was, but if walking like an old geriatric is any indication, then I am well on my way to being fit. Super fit.

Hum. That last sentence reminded me of short-lived health kick in high school where I created the Wall O’ Inspiration on my yellow and purple plaid walls, which had sayings like “Be Fab, lose the Flab!” written all over it. It’s safe to say that I was really cool in high school.

ANYWAY AGAIN (have you noticed the A.D.D. nature of this post yet?)

Oh look, monkeys!

I kid.

Back to the subject at hand: my rump. Turns out that climbing 40 flights of stairs is hard, and resulted in me walking home at an extraordinarily slow pace. I thought I was doing a decent job of masking the pain until some random dude on the street glanced over and asked “Rough day at work?” I think I must have whimpered, or nodded in response because he then offered to rub my feet. And only because I still had some shred of dignity, I did not lie down on 5^th avenue and take the man up on his offer. Well that, and the fact that strangers taking a special interest in my feet sort of creeps me out.

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Edit: I climbed 40 flights in 20 minutes and wanted to die. These people are out of their damn minds