I feel some of my tension seep out. I feel relief that this hasn’t turned into a scolding or a conversation about how reckless I am. And with my hands propped on my hips, I offer her a stiff nod. One she returns before putting me to work until my abs burn. Twenty minutes later, I wheeze, “I’m tapping out.” I flop back on the mat, absolutely brutalized by the petite powerhouse who just tried to murder me with her “specialized workout.” Specialized to kill me. “Okay, let’s stretch,” is how she responds as she tosses a mat down and kneels beside me. When I glance up at her, a faint smile touches
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