Rocks, Please

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I don't know what I ever did to Tracy Anderson to make her hate me. Okay, I do refer to her as that bitch Tracy Anderson, but she can't hear me. Can she? Here I've spent good money on her exercise DVD's, have done them faithfully (well, faithfully enough), and believed her promises. 

I still look nothing like Gwyneth Paltrow.

Old age, bi-lateral hip surgery, and writer's block spurred me on to take up exercise. I've since read, from several sources, that regular exercise stimulates the creative process. I was kinda hoping it might lift my ass off the back of my knees, but that's just me. I do have to admit I've experienced many a creative moment contorted into a praying dog, or whatever the hell, all involving various and painful ways to whack Tracy Anderson.

Let's face it. I'm a writer. 

My idea of exercise is filling my pockets with rocks and wading out to the middle of the ocean. I contemplate if I would burn more fat by drinking alone, or with a group. How many calories do I expend walking to the pharmacy for Prozac. From my parking spot. At the front. Crying jags and hyperventilation must be worth something on the exercise scale.

Now that I'm facing book launch day...less than a week away...my anxiety level is heading off the charts. I'm also staring at a blank screen, a third of the way through my second novel. And the back of my knees are still covered.

That bitch Tracy Anderson better deliver.
 

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