According to my friend Matt, I am a beast.
To most people that probably doesn't sound very complimentary, but Matt is my former trainer, and I am...well, I'm a beast.
Sunday morning, I ran nine miles. Monday morning found me at the gym with my kettlebell (all 25 pounds of it), doing swings, Around the Worlds, and squats. Then I did some core exercises just to add to my fun. I spent much of the rest of the day in my classroom, climbing the ladder to hang things, moving stuff around, walking around campus to say my hellos to other people returning. By the time I got home, I was reluctant to leave again, but I had told myself I ought to get to a kickboxing class...so I did.
Forty-five minutes of cardio-heavy kickboxing--amazing. Punching, kicking, jumping, hopping. I felt so strong and powerful the whole while. When I left, drenched in sweat and feeling amazing, I texted Matt to brag. He told me I am in beast mode, to which I replied, "A beast who will try to read in bed tonight, only to pass out with a book on her face."
Today, the beast woke up at 4:30, sore. I mean ess-oh-ar-ee sore. My arms and shoulders whimpered as I shifted in bed. My legs promised their revenge should I make them stand up. Even my fingers were throbbing slightly.
I've spent a lot of today whimpering softly when walking, gingerly stepping around and grimacing through the movements required to step up a ladder or sit in a chair. A run was out of the question, so after working in my room all day, I went to the gym, where I passed by Matt, working with a client. He waved and grinned.
I waved back, stating with half-grin, half grimace, "My whole body hurts..." His grin got wider, and a laugh escaped. "Yeah...?" he replied, in an admiring tone that clearly said, "You, Meg, are a beast."
I wear my beastliness like a badge of honor.