this broken machine

I am actually looking forward to getting home at night so I can work out. That feels so weird, it has literally been years. I come downstairs afterward and I'm all loud and happy. "I'M COVERED IN SWEAT AND GORE[1], COME GIVE ME A HUG!"

I think I'm pushing myself adequately in that my last few reps tend to be very slow and require a lot of swearing to get through. But I'm not sore any more the next day. So I dunno - muscle memory I guess? I used to do this a lot. I just don't want to push myself too hard, given that my joints are already kinda fucked up. And I'm pretty much going against my doctor's explicit instructions by even touching weights in the first place. (She wants me to swim. Meh. Swimming's ok, but it requires being around other people and traveling to a separate place and remembering to pack towels and stuff. Unlikely to actually happen.)

So I guess I'll just keep doing what I'm doing.

I gotta say I wish to fuck my lungs had something equivalent to muscle memory. No such luck.


[1] There is no actual gore.