We’re rolling out a new thing at the Mid-America Trucking Show this year – literally – in that our truck will be unveiled in her new form. She’s in Joplin until we pick her up for the trip from Missouri to Louisville. The Boyz at Chrome Shop Mafia are fixing her up a little and we’re going to spend truck show season representing Tough Tested and 4 State Trucks at 14 shows, between the months of March and November.
To say we are humbled and excited to be involved in this project is putting it lightly. I may or may not have pranced around my office doing the beauty pageant winner wave when the final plans were done, until reality set in and I realized we just signed up for a very grueling schedule. And I’ve spent the last year pretty much sitting around on my big ol’ butt, being comfortable and getting soft.
Since we have three weeks at home, I decided to become a nightmare for the local “boot camp” interval training gym, because they offered a 21 day quick-start program. It seems really reasonable to prepare for a fast paced schedule with a “quick start.” (Remember who’s throwing the word “reasonable” around in this story, OK?)
In all fairness, interval training is perfect for me. The class lasts 30 minutes. It’s a circuit. Things change quickly, and let’s face it, I have two grown children and have been married for 23 years – I can stand pretty much anything for 30 minutes. It’s really not horrible, but it’s still exercise, and exercise makes me cranky, especially at 6 a.m.
Thankfully, I’m also pretty inarticulate at 6 a.m. Most of the action happening in my brain either translates to the keyboard or stays trapped in my mind, which is good, because I’d probably have been arrested this morning when the cheery, chiseled 11-year-old trainer breezed by me on the third round of stair steps and said, “Keep it up, finish hard, even if you have to scream!”
(Inside my head) “Come closer, son, you’ll scream when I slap you in the ear. I’ma take that little microphone and beat you half to death with it.”
(In real life) “Ugghhhh arrrgh nooo gaaahhhd…” (insert other stroke-like noises).
I’ll admit the combination of gurgling pleas to the Lord for mercy and made-up cuss words may have been alarming. But seriously, don’t ask me if I’m OK when I clearly appear out of sorts. In hindsight, I’m sure the very young trainer was concerned that he may have to shove my walrus-like body over to perform CPR, so I’ll forgive him and apologize when I go back tomorrow for calling him a dips— when he asked me if I was OK.
Sometimes, preparing for change is hard.
