I got to 73. My arms turned into cooked noodles. My soul tried to exit through my left ear. I collapsed, face-down on the yoga mat, and whispered, “I can’t.”
And Shaun T. lives in my head now. He charges me rent in burpees.
Shaun T. began to appear in my dreams. Not as a man, but as a concept—a grinning, bald-faced angel of endurance. He’d stand at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, and whisper, “You call that sleep? In this program, we rest when we’re dead. Let’s go. Jump in!”
Then Power Jacks. 40. My lungs whispered a complaint.