I hate boogers. phlem. spit..gack!  They will make me barf in an instant.  But Burpees?  LOATHE them.  Once I had my son Timothy, it’s like ‘mama mode’ kicked in and developed a superhero like suit between the boogers and I.  On more than one occasion I have caught myself “grabbin’ a boogie”.  No kleenex. No nothing. Just my bare hand and a boogie. This is barbaric.  It’s almost like I can hear Braveheart screaming in the background “FREEEEEEDOM!” when I actually catch my son long enough to nab it.  THEN I grab a kleenex, because obviously I’m health code dyslexic, and dispose of the evil boogie.  I stand tall, hair flowing in the wind and think to myself, “Super Mom! Fighting Grime One Boogie at a Time!” then you almost hear a record scratch as Timothy puts my entire iPhone in his mouth and starts running with scissors. joy.

The moral of this long, dysfunctional tale, is that I overcame my gag reflex with boogies.  It was like a Christmas Miracle without annoying carolers and cocoa.  But Burpees? I hate them as much as Jumping Jacks.  You know the exercise that every fat person in the 80’s did in terrible grey sweatsuits where you could see every last ounce of their fat doing the cha-cha?   I know they make our cores tight and fantastic.  I know they help our Cardiovascular endurance.  I know that more than 15 in a row will make me barf.  But I don’t think that 10 Christmas Miracles in a row will make me like or even tolerate them.  So, I will go on, cursing my trainer (outloud) whilst hoisting my arse up and down doing these satanic exercises because I know that someday, I’ll hit my goal and I’ll never have to do them again.  Instead, I’ll smuggle wine into the gym and sip it while I watch another victim of the burpee have their will to live tested.