Mr. PB does not play. He will go workout in a monsoon. His logic is that he is either going to get wet from rain or sweat. My logic is that rain calls for snuggling under a blankie with some chocolate, plus my iPod mustn’t get wet. But when he heads out into the rain with his weight vest on I feel like the ultimate slack-ass. So I trudge out behind him. And come back looking like a drowned rat.
Note the double sports bra. Cause my boobs feel like someone unzipped them, filled them with rocks, stapled them back together, and motorboated me with a bowling ball. Oh, Flo, how do I love thee?