OMG. Oh. My. It comes tomorrow. I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas (before she finds out that Santa isn’t real). I’m that kinda nervous. The I-wonder-if-Santa-will-get-me-a-puppy kind. I can’t sleep. What if Santa needs advice. Or help getting in. Our fireplace is electric, will that hinder his ability to furnish my tree with nifty giftys?
P90X comes tomorrow. The ab-shredding-double-X—OK , I’m completely making these names up, but they seem incredibly fitting. I mean come on, the flippin’ name is P90X, which, when I mentioned it to my mom, she responded with a sarcastically powerful, “Oh yeah, your father is doing LM67XNBlaster.”
Well fazsha, looks like I’ll blast your blaster with Tony Horton’s muscle-pumping moves.
Frack. I’m really nervous. Everything I’ve read—including Brett Favres twitter—said the first workout is a vomit-inducing killer.
Bring it on Tony.
