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Eleven days until Halloween. Which means Luke wants to decorate the food truck. Unfortunately for me, said decorations are in his rented, second-floor self-storage unit, and the building’s elevator is toast. Hence I take the stairs. While normally this wouldn’t pose a problem, in the few days since our official agreement was inked, Gretchen, now “the face of a publishing diva,” has experienced a sudden spike in vanity.
Vanity means exercise.
Exercise means pre-dinner yoga alternating with one disc from a set of DVD workouts led by a Nazi-esque woman with frightening eyebrows and abs my granny could’ve washed her delicates on. If I’d had a granny. With delicates.
And all of this sweating and stretching of sinew, Gretchen refuses to do alone. She says I have to be in top physical cond
