Pumpin' Tinfoil

When you're at the weight machine, ready to start your second set of tricep pulls, and you need that extra boost of adrenalin?

The song to be listening to on your ipod is NOT "Sailing" by Christopher Cross.


Ryan's helping with my fitness regimen at home; here's the nightly routine:

Ryan sits down to get his shoes/slippers taken off at the shoe/slipper takin'-off step. We should probably come up with a better name for it.
He crawls, or I walk with/carry/Tigger-bounce him, up the stairs. At the top he usually says "Billiblibbibblibbibbih" while running into his room, a bounce in every step.
By the time I get in there, no sign of him. "Ryan gone?" a voice asks.
"Ryan?" I say to no one. "Are you in the bathroom?"
"No! Under Bed!"
(Tonight I went into the bathroom to start his bath water and I heard an addendum: "Bailey Found Me!")
I lie down on the floor and look under the crib and say "There He Is!"
At first, a few months ago, he would crawl out to see me.
Then, he started being coy and staying under there, playing with whatever toys were within reach. So I started knocking out a few pushups just for fun. To pass the time.
Seeing that, he immediately crawls out, and climbs on my back. "poosh UPs?" he says.
So it's good weight resistance, having a 34-pound squirmy lug on me. Though still kinda hard, especially if I've already worked out that day.
"How many?" I ask.
"1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12?"
Damn him and his counting ability.
Last night I said, "How about '5'?"
He upped the ante. "How bout thix."
Nertz.
So I thought I'd outsmart him this evening.
"How about '2'?" I asked.
"How Bout ... SEVEN?"