My Mrs Showed Me How To Correctly Lift Weights

And I can’t thank her enough for it!

Here’s a curveball in my fitness saga: the Mrs turned out to be my unexpected weightlifting guru.

For my regular readers: you’ve witnessed my metamorphosis from a couch potato to a lean, mean, carnivore machine, all within the shadow of Covid’s lockdowns. Ditched the Uber Eats binge for a strict carnivore diet, watched the weight melt away, then shifted gears to OMAD (One Meal A Day), sculpting myself into something resembling a Greek statue – if I do say so myself.

My routine is a rigorous dawn patrol of pushups, squats, tricep dips, followed by a 5-mile cycle to the grind, powered by nothing but black coffee and sheer willpower.

Evenings meant more iron to pump.

Yet, for all my efforts and dietary discipline, the weight room wins eluded me. The scales and mirrors whispered betrayal.

Enter the game-changer. Yesterday, mid my usual lunchtime iron session, the Mrs caught sight of my form – or the tragic lack thereof. With a blend of concern and incredulity, she broke down my litany of errors. It wasn’t pretty. My bicep curls? A joke. Shoulder presses? A disaster. Chest presses? Don’t even get me started. I had the technique of a toddler wielding a crayon, not a grown man with…