Madonna and the armies of hell.

I like working out, there I've admitted it. I like going to the gym and doing weights. I get a stupid thrill out of upping a weight. or cranking out that extra rep.
I like it when my legs wobble and shake under the strain of that last rep. I like learning new moves, I like the push press, it's interesting. I don't mind sweating, I don't mind rows, I do mind dips, and I'm very bad at them, but I still do them. I'm learning how to do kipping pull ups, ouch. I don't mind pain the next day. I super like that I don't have bingo wings. I like seeing muscle develop. It amuses the hell out of me that I-Fatmammycat- am frequently the ONLY female in the free weights section of the gym and that sometimes teenage boys can be spotted counting the weights I am using and immediately match me (teenage boys are strong) I like that some of the guys in the gym who used to smirk behind my aching back and pink face now nod at me and say hello. I like that I can do lunges all around the place without any of them batting an eyelid these days and I was much pleased to notice two guys were doing the same moves I recognised from CrossFit (We're not worthy! We're not worthy!) the other day.
I feel a bit deflated on days I don't go.
So yeah, I'm a total unapologetic gym rat.
Where am I going with this?
Well I'm going straight over to Madonna actually and I am going to gaze at that photo again.
Madonna is a pretty strict yoga person and is as fit as a fiddle I'd say, but sweet Jesus, her arms? I know it's an unflattering picture, but sweet Jesus, her arms.
I believe this is what some folk call too much of a good thing.
I hope when I'm Madonna's age I'm in as good shape as she is, but I also hope I don't look like skeletor.
Looking like the walking dead, I'm very much against that.