But whatever the reason, I did it. I got on the ground and did some press-ups. 8 of them to be more accurate. Why a strange number like 8? Well, because I would have died if I did one more. If arms could talk then mine would have gone from berating me for my idiocy to begging me to stop, and finally to loud cries of utter despair, not unlike this one; and that would just have been after press-up number one. But like a man who just doesn't know when to stop, who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'quit', who won't take 'no' for an answer, I struggled on and did a whopping seven more of those perilous exercises until I came to within an inch of my life. Then I quit.
The message is clear. My arms don't like this. Though they may be subordinate to my will, the pain they can cause me is quite persuasive. Their voice echoes in my aching muscles. But I must press on with my press-ups. I have done 8; perhaps someday I will scale the heights of 10. Who knows? In time I may have things coming out of my shoulders that actually resemble a pair of adult male arms.