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If I could outsource one thing, it would be exercise. I’d schedule it on my Google Calendar, and categorize it under Home-7:30-8:30 am, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’d set an alert on my phone when it was complete—not too loud, not loud enough to wake me up, but strong enough that it would sink in. I’d probably incorporate it in a dream.
I’d be able to tell instantly if the exercise was working, in which I’d IM the outsourcer, scathing, “Brandi, sweetheart, my jeans aren’t fitting me like they should—you’re going to have to up the reps of roundhouse kicks.” And then I’d roll over and finish my bag of M&Ms. It sounds perfect.
Truthfully, I enjoy working out. It’s the prep work it takes to get out the door I dread. I hate the hassle of finding something to wear—not too tight, not too loose, and something flattering as…
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