Moore To Love Read Online Free Page B

telling them to do. And, you know what? I don’t blame them. The shit I made these poor, flaccid, underworked muscles do yesterday—“I’m so sorry,” I cry, rubbing my legs in hopes they’ll sympathize with me and get to doing what they were designed to do.
    But I can’t wait for them to move of their own accord so I force myself to roll off the bed—yes, roll—and land on the floor with a loud thud. “Jesus!” I whimper, soothing my elbow where I banged it against the bed frame. I’m a walking—well, not really—disaster. This can’t be good and there are no excuses. Be stronger than your excuses, Leni. If I can get through this pain and go on with the workout plan, I can do anything. I’m sure of it. However, I’ve gotten pretty comfortable here on the plush, cream carpet and I’ve just spotted a giant bag of Kit Kats hidden under the bed! Oh my God! Mecca!
    I almost reach out for the bag of wonderfulness but force my nose in the air in disgust, remembering that nowhere on the “what to eat” list from Jane and Mandy are Kit Kats or their equally yummy counterparts Twix (the backup plan buried deep inside my closet). Willpower, I apologize to you, too. Just like my leg muscles, you’ll be tested in ways you’ve never imagined possible.
    I hate that I forgot that stash because it’s just another obstacle to zig zag through, but just like the gym, I’ll face this head on. Tossing every smidge of leftover candy in the trash moves straight to the top of my to-do list. Which also includes crawling to the bathroom so I can wash up, stuffing my junk in the cute pair of yoga pants and running shoes Tatum helped picked out on our shopping spree at the athletic store, and setting my feet to the pavement at Central Park. I hope my body cooperates because it actually sounds like a great start to my day. A new start I hope to implement into my daily routine and one that Jane and Mandy suggested since my options stretch far beyond the gym. “You don’t have to sequester yourself to the four walls of this torture chamber, as you like to call it, Leni. You can work out—aka a nice, brisk, break-a-sweat walk—anywhere. Your home, the park, the mall. Just make sure you incorporate an hour of cardio at least five times a week, and you’ll keep me—and your scale—very happy, babes.”
    Jane’s lecture rings loud and clear through my thoughts as I drag myself to the bathroom. I consider texting Tatum to see if she wants to put her new sports bra to use, but decide against it because I want to do this for the first time on my own. There’s something empowering about being able to face your fears without an entourage of people holding your hand. I know I’ll need all the support I can get in the coming months, but doing this solo just seems right.
    I almost yank the pedestal sink out of the wall hoisting my ass off the tile floor, but once I’m in an upright position I take a deep, soothing breath, and smile at myself in the mirror. Time for the daily pep talk. Ashley told me about these books she reads by Joel Osteen. I’m not exactly a fan of preachers shoving the praises of The Lord down my throat, but Ashley’s advice—and her daily Instagram posts—resonate. Now, while I would totally prefer the Cliffs Notes version of said books, I’m happy to let Ashley pump me up with the key lessons she took away from preacher man’s sermon.
    Today’s message: you may think there is a lot wrong with you, but there is also a lot right with you, is where I start. I look long and hard, focusing on all the things I actually like about myself. My long, wavy, umber locks, swirling with natural golden highlights. Chestnut-colored eyes that sparkle with amber flecks. Unblemished ivory skin with the tiniest of freckles peppering an upturned nose. And heart-shaped lips with a pale pink hue. I’m not a horrible sight—in fact, I think I’m kinda pretty—but I doubt Osteen’s message is skin deep. He wants us to look