The Atomic Bomb

Saturday morning I did something I have been wanting to do for a long time. Besides re-intering the land of the living, I took plate invetory at Plate City Gym. Yeah, that.

I felt one percent better Thursday. Friday I felt forty-six percent better. Saturday, I felt almost well. And I acted like it. About mid-morning, I entered the City with a notebook, a pen, my phone, and the determination to find out how many pounds of plates I had. Bars not counting, dumbbells not included, kettlebells maybe later, once-inch plates off the menue, the purpose of Saturday's quest was to figure out what the current state of the gym's collection of Olympic style plates amounts to. 

NASA had asked me to do this since, according to them, the rotation of the earth has changed due to a redistribution of weight. They offered to do it for me, but I declined because I feared theft. So I got to it Saturday morning. Are you ready? Drum roll, drum roll, drum roll . . . 

                                3,760 pounds

Really?

Yes, really. It is called Plate City for a reason. It took awhile to count plates, and do addition in one section at a time until I finished. But when I finished the invetory, I stood there, pround of myself.

But why do you need that much weight?

Need? Need has nothing to do with it.

Later in the afternoon, I came back out to do some cleaning up, put in some stall matts, and lift a little. I got on the treadmill and went 1.52 miles (in three instalements), my first and only running of the week. I did full-body lifting, and moved some things around. When this is finished, Plate City will be the bomb.

Oh wait, Plate City is already the bomb. So I guess Plate City will be the atomic bomb.

Pictures and videos coming.

Thank you, Jesus.