It happens

Curse you, P90X Ab Ripper X. My hip flexors have never felt so, well, flexed. It takes me back to my soccer days and our sports conditioning class during off season. Mr. Torpedo would put us through grueling ab workouts. I don't think his name was really Mr. Torpedo. In fact I know it wasn't. His name was Mr. Thorpe. But when someone's name is Mr. Thorpe and he makes you hold yourself in plank for minute after minute after minute, you call him Mr. Torpedo. It's just the natural thing to do.
And then it reminds me of those hot afternoons spent out on Fox field. Is that what it was called? Fox field? I can hardly remember. And Coach Cardoso would yell at us, "Focus, girls! Focus!" in a thick Brazilian accent, which made "focus" sound a lot less like "focus" and a lot more like something else. And I remember writing myself a note and putting it up on the fridge during the season. Katie, it said, Did you drink enough water today? Love, Katie. And I remember taking it down and calling it quits on the sport.

I didn't intend this post to be about soccer. I intended it to be a P90X rant. So I will close this the way I opened it and call it good. Curse you, P90X Ab Ripper X. I'll see you again tomorrow.