Stretchy Things

Just got back from TarJAY, where I raided their yoga department and got some suitable duds for Willies's disgusting, soft porn photo session tomorrow.
Christ, I don't even wear sleeveless shirts, much less strip off and let myself be photographed by some big black guy.
I figure if I am willing to let Willie camera shoot me and paw me while he's taking my measurements, then put me on a scale and write down what he sees, doing the actual sweating and grunting to change it will be a breeze.
In my paranoia, I have ridden my bike half an hour, mowed mine and my neighbor's front lawns in the noonday sun, and I plan to lift some weights after my back stops hurting from trying on a jogging bra that was too small. I nearly ripped my ears off trying to get the damn thing off.
I felt like my torso was in one of those Chinese finger trapping tubes I used to play with as a kid.
I am beginning to get why those super buff people can be such assholes. This seems like it's gonna be a lotta work!
I need a therapeutic meditation session. Here's my mantra:
Zzzzzzz.