digits move so fast
supersonic ninja hands
an impressive blur
I finally got that punching bag. And once I hauled the big box home, took all the pieces out, put on my swishy nike workout shorts (that have never seen a workout or a drop of sweat), I got to work.
"Do you need help?" my husband asked.
"No!" I shouted, dropping things and tripping over water guns.
20 minutes later, abandoned by kids who couldn't stand the heat on the back porch, nike shorts covered in grease, I hear: "Are you sure you don't need help?"
"No!" I shouted again.
After another 20 minutes, I acquiesced and allowed him to help me cram the foam into the heavy bag. But all the screwing and nut twisting? All on my own. As always. (yes, yes, I'll be here all weekend.)
So now? Now I have a fully functional Everlast heavy bag. I beat the crap out of it as soon as I built it, even though I was already sweaty and tired. I bought the wee one some gloves, too, much to the consternation of apparently everyone in the world. He and the wee-er one are sharing them, one glove each, Billie Jean style.
I am very disappointed to not have the heavy bag in the living room, but I understand that it is big and we can't have anything block the TV. Kidding. I understand it doesn't match the current "late 20th century dorm room" interior design we have going on. This means it is relegated to the back porch, so I cannot punch it while I am watching Ike-a-saurus at 3:30am. Bummer. Maybe I can move the sleeping baby, his o2 concentrator, his oximeter, the suction pump, and the nebulizer outside with me. Think he will stay asleep?
Ah well, I will just punch it with my mind.