It was a day that began like any other, I suppose — a Tuesday, a “back and bi’s” day, as I recall.
I awoke to the galloping riff of Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” and hustled into a tank top and a pair of sweats, looking — with my bedhead afro — like a strung-out Richard Simmons.
I grabbed my keys and shook a leg, regretting having brushed my teeth as I noshed on a banana — not like a strung-out Richard Simmons — on the way to the door. I was ready to bid “Farewell to Fat!” — I was