We could talk all day about my curves.  No one wants to do that trust me.  Buzz, your girlfriend…woof.

After injuring myself and myself esteem a few times one would think I would learn.  Sadly this is not the case.

A successful bag class completed at the gym and the tires were rolled out.  Notice the plural s on tires; don’t let that single fella fool you.


A handful of us stood around.  A few completed the jump.  I simply started sweating as a contemplated the idea.  I told myself absolutely not.  No matter what the outcome I would end up looking like a donkey and probably end up injured.

Let me be honest.  I am not scared to be hurt.  I am afraid to not be able to get my sweat on.  My eating habits are out of control and curves will be the understatement of the century if I am unable to workout.

The tires and I went a few rounds.  Of course I attempted just with minimal effort.  I would jump up and barely close enough to touch them with my feet.  I figured everyone including myself would be satisfied with my attempt and we could move on.  Yea right.  Where was the effort?

Enter my irrational decision making skills and inability to say no, yet again. More commonly referred to as my life.

The owner of the gym offered to stand behind me.  The logic being I would fall on him and not the cement floor.  I told him for his safety it wasn’t in his best interest; he insisted for insurance purposes that it was.  I made a few more legitimate attempts, but still no luck.

One of the successful jumpers suggested I use my arms.  As people started to walk away, I did just that.  Result jumping so far that my shoes went inside the tires and I flew backwards.

Hello broken tail-feather.

I could possibly be over exaggerating the severity of the injury, but on the drive home I was sincerely concerned that I wouldn’t be able to get out of my car.

The only thing we are sure of that day I was injured at Curves.  Please allow me to quote the gym owner, “Wow, really sorry to hear you were hurt at Curves.  I hear it’s intense over there.”

What followed?

Laughter…naturally.  Subconsciously, I channeled my dad’s creative cursing.