I probably should have realized how intense Thursday's workout was when my heart rate monitor reported that I'd worked off nearly 600 calories. Actually, I should have realized it because I was there and I was tired, sweaty, red-faced and exhilarated afterward, but somehow it still didn't register. Even when the Spicy Chicken asked "Are you sore from your workout?" as I gimped down the steps last night I STILL didn't get it.
I was forced, however, to accept the fact that Hyam, once again kicked my ass, when I attempted to change out of my sports bra yesterday evening - about 36 hours after the workout - and had to ask the Spicy Chicken for help getting out of it. I was seriously stuck.
Poor guy probably thought he was going to get lucky when I cried "Can I get your help in the bedroom, please?" Only to find me - one boob half hanging out, the other smushed inside a very unsexy sports bra (the Ta Ta Tamer was in the wash), wincing in pain and pleading for assistance.
He did, however, help me out (literally) and I have to admit that while I hate having to ask for help with anything I do love being sore, so it was worth having to swallow my pride.
Just this once.