Name: La Nina
I'm a Jersey girl without the big hair or the accent (well, most of the time anyway), but with all of the bad driving and the penchant for weekly manicures.
Oh, and I'm an interior design student. That's how all of the weird terminology comes into play.
Here is why I hurt. Back in November I started a kickboxing regimen which I have been keeping up with ever since, averaging 4 days a week. Sometimes my dedication shocks me. There have been many days in which I'll get up at 5:30 in the morning wearing my gym clothes so that I can make my 5:45 class (as I will do tomorrow). I've been hitting the bag so hard that my knuckles have been bruising, so now I have to wear tape on my hands and wrists in addition to wearing gloves. On Wednesdays I'll rush home from work in order to make the 6:00 class, rush home again, shower, change, scarf down a sandwich, and head off to my 7:30 drawing and sketching class. Yeah, I know. Stupefies me too sometimes.
Hee. I kick ass.
Now save for the first few weeks when I started again, I haven't experienced the soreness I've been known to get in my quadriceps from time to time. Then came the dreaded lunges that our instructor has grown extremely fond of as of late. We do many, many, many of those in succession as though our knees are experiencing an extreme force of gravity as we walk circles around the gym.
Now my legs feel as if they're made of jelly but look like they're made of titanium when I walk. I'm sure it's very amusing to the casual observer as my knees wobble with each step I take in my pointed-toe shoes. Sure, I hear their cruel laughter as I pass by, but I know how cut my arms are so the joke's on them. *sniff*
Fortunately for me I have a hair appointment tonight or I might have subjected myself to another instance of premature aging. In the meantime, please pass me my pills and my shawl, dearie.
I can't understand for the life of me where this sudden turnaround came from. Throughout my twenties I was pretty much the takeout queen. And now that I'm 30 I find myself looking forward to going home, sautéing broccoli and garlic, and marinating beef tenderloin. Bizarre.
While I have not yet resorted to yelling "Honey, I'm home!" to my kitchen appliances just yet but at the rapid rate to which I am rushing toward domesticity, I expect to wake up in the middle of the night to find that I'm hugging a fondue pot. If that happens, please do not have me committed. I don't think they let you cook in the nuthouse.