Spurred on by her anniversary, a mere 16 weeks in the future, and the expensive (especially considering the lack of material involved) dress she already bought, a woman with an under muscled, overly cushioned keister pushes her way to the heavy weights side of the YMCA. Passing the retired marines, the off duty cops and the high school boys with more brawn than brain she declares, “Pardon me girls, I’ve got some work to do!”
She determinedly lowers herself onto the leg press, the theme from Rocky pounding in her head, and she wonders if she should have drank her eggs raw instead of making them into that delicious omelet.
She pushes; muscles flex, varicose veins bulge and she grunts under the strain of the ten pound weight, (that’s’ five on each side) “One! One leg press, ah ah ah.” she proclaims aloud with pride.
“You sound like the count from Sesame Street,” the boy next to her smirks, then slides another hundred pounds on his machine. (That’s a hundred on each side.)
She presses on, “Be quiet boy or you’re going to meet the Grouch!” She strains, “Two?” She sweats and pushes, “Two legs press, ouch , ouch, ouch!”
“Do you need some help up lady?” the bicep burdened mocker inquires.
“No!” … “Yes!”… “Be careful don’t hurt your” she’s on her feet before she can finish. “Self. Thank you, you’re very strong.”
“It’s ok, my mom’s almost as big as you and I help her up all the time.”
He moves, nay, all but skips to the next machine. The woman waits until he is gone before she pulls her abundant panties free from what seems like a 127 hour entrapment in her gluteus cavernous maximus. She rubs her legs as a smile creeps over her face.
“Two, two leg presses ah ah ah. That’s one more that I did yesterday!”
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