Over the weekend, the lower portion of my chest hurt.  Just sort of sore, like I ran into something and bruised it.  Trying to figure out how I injured myself, I concluded that I hurt myself during a show of determination, a demonstration of manhood, a feat of physical strength.  I did a sit-up.

You see, I was being a very good boy.  I had accompanied my wife to the hotel fitness center to burn off a few Thanksgiving calories.  I must say, I had done a really good job.  I pushed myself hard on the treadmill and sweating like a man who recently ate too much stuffing.  Getting ready to exit the fitness center, my uberfit wife spotted my belly (it is hard to miss) and suggested that I may want to add some sit-ups to my routine.  Considering that I hate sit-ups, she was kind and said that 30 might be reasonable place to start.

Contorting my body, which is inflexible to begin with, onto the angled sit-up bench, I began.  The first 20 felt pretty decent, the next 7 uncomfortable, and the last 3 borderline painful, but I finished.  I was quite proud of myself.  But now, the pride has receded leaving only a sore upper abdominal muscle in its wake.  No longer a fitness center warrior, merely a holiday weekend gym survivor.