Denial is a Drug

I pulled my chest muscle mixing brownie batter.

When I first realized that this had happened, I felt unjustly punished, seeing as I don't go to the gym and only people who work out should suffer muscle strains. It's a risk that every athlete takes and they just have to deal with the consequences. I, however, never signed up for that risk. In fact, I (not ran) but slowly walked away from that risk at a meandering to moderate pace so why am I being punished?

I am not a person who works out. I'm just not. Could I stand to lose a bit of pudge under my belly button? Yes, of course. But I was blessed with the family genes that Max missed out on, which is the gene that makes you appear as if you look AWESOME naked. Whether I do or not is debatable and solely dependent on the softness of the light filtering in through my white gauzy curtains. But when I'm clothed, I look like I'd be bangin' under a Brookstones magnifying mirror in fluorescent lighting. And that's good enough for me. Poor Max has to WORK at a gym to achieve that misleading effect. I envy him for both his efforts and well-deserved achievements. His regimen has recently earned him some pecs, or so it seems...the Family Effect does some powerful things.

My below the belly button pudge is telling me that the fact that I DON'T go to the gym is why I strained my muscle--that no self-sufficient adult relies on brownie batter-mixing as an aerobic workout. But for now, I'm just going to ice my battle wound, eat my brownies and stay in good lighting.