Late last year, far later than she should have started pondering her involvement, someone in my high school graduating class of 1989 decided she would attempt to plan a 20-year class reunion. The impending event is scheduled to take place in July of this year which gives me a whopping 6 months to turn my saggy, lumpy, average mom body back into this world class athlete of yesteryear.
Y'all let me know if you want to see my letter sometime. I'm pretty sure my excellence in high school sports is why I was
Worse, the idiot party planner decided it would be just brilliant if she scheduled the event to take place in the dead of summer...at, of all possible locations in the 48 contiguous United States, the beach. Presuming the terror of having to face all of one's old classmates in a bathing suit for an entire weekend is not enough to make you put down the nutella already, it's wise to employ some sort of backup motivation.
I have this. Suffice it to say, avoiding the natural state at Chez Freshour is no longer an option.