My first visit with the dominatrix

Her name is LaToya. She is a personal trainer at the gym I have been going to. She is an evil evil woman.

I should have heeded the warning yesterday and just hidden in the garage over by the water heater. It would have served me well. "Sure," I said, "I'll do a free workout with a trainer." No stupider words have I ever spoken. I might as well have said, "Why certainly, I'll let somebody direct me while I abuse my body in ways that I cannot imagine."

The synopsis: I hurt. Not that bad yet, because my flaccid muscles still all feel like uncooked bacon. I imagine tomorrow morning will be very interesting as I attempt to drag my flab-tacular body out of the bed.

I think I'd rather pay a lady in leather knee boots and a vinyl bustier to whip my ass with a riding crop than go through this again. At least I could just lay there and howl as the end of the crop smacks me. Plus the pain would be localized to my ass, not muscles I didn't realize I had and or needed. Also, it might be a bit more fun - not being the fat guy laying on the mat doing crunches and looking like I'm trying to dry-hump the sky.

Ok, it's over. The love affair with the gym that is. I'm not doing the trainer thing again - unless the lottery comes in, and I think one has to buy tickets or some such nonsense to win. I'm still going to the gym, I actually look forward to the one by the house opening up - but I'm going to focus myself on what I want to do, and push myself a lot harder. I guess that I now know how high the bar needs to be and I need to push myself to it on a regular basis. Now, if I could get a trainer to wear knee-boots, and a vinyl bustier, I'd probably find the money to pay for a few sessions. You betcha I would.