Did you even know there was such an affliction? No? Neither did I, until my jeans were a little snug after hitting a deadline late, and the impression in my seat was a trifle larger, as though someone else had been sitting there for eight hours a day cupping their head and berating the word Gods. It came up in conversation one day, in our Carina UK Facebook group.
And what these (way more energetic ladies) planned to do about it. There were suggestions of a special desk, levelled at typing height, while they stepped and typed their way to a new butt. Some bought bikes. Or vowed to walk the kids to school. Or take up yoga. Deadlines, and complete disorganisation seemed to be a good excuse as any not to follow suit, but surely there was an easier way? In the interest of butt’s everywhere I…
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