I’m not really one to make rules for myself. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I’ll try almost anything once, and I rarely freak if a risk I take doesn’t end in my favor. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain standards by which I live. Let me explain.
I don’t let just anyone or anything into my bedroom. My bed is a cone of trust. You don’t get to enter it, especially with me, unless I know that you won’t betray me. It’s a Becca law that I have always honored.
This being said, something has happened to this law. I have broken it.
About two weeks ago, I finally pep talked myself back in to my workout regime. I keep it rather basic. Walking and running intervals for cardio, a few push-ups and squats, and a lot of stretching. All was going well, and I had finally gotten over the don’t wants phase, when my shoes decided they didn’t like my knees and proceeded to launch full on warfare.
Last year I purchased a pair of Sketchers Shape-Ups. A couple of my friends swore up and down their asses were on the fast track to putting Jennifer Anniston’s to shame, so naturally I joined the ass bandwagon. I didn’t run much last year, but I did justify my lack of working out by doing all of my shopping in those backstabbing shoes. Because I never had an issue with them (besides that they really do nothing for improving your physique), I didn’t think twice about lacing up this year and hitting the pavement.
Wednesday, while at the gym, I started to notice a few strange sensations. Read the rest of this entry