A word of advice: don’t read Tuesdays with Morrie at the gym. I was out of trashy, starlet-glossed magazines and the book was compact enough to fit on the reading ledger of the cross ramp. The read was quick, common and predictable. Regardless, the final chapter brought a few embarrassing tears to my already pink, puffy, salt-encrusted cheeks. Might have been an ugly scene for a crowded cardio floor if I hadn't been able to pass them off nonchalantly as sweat beads. Thus, can anyone recommend a Plan C to this hour-a-day gym rat who yearns to avoid the quick-sand monotony of her exercise routine? I can only read so much about Brangelina before I want to beat my head with my ipod and the dense content of my latest Erica Jong read is far too thick to rest motionless in front of my bouncing eyes.
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