Dear
Diary...
For my fiftieth
birthday this year, my husband (the dear) purchased a week of personal training at the
local health club for me.
Although I am still in great shape
since playing on my high school softball team, I decided it would be a good idea to go
ahead and give it a try.

I called the club and made my
reservations with a personal trainer I'll call Bruce, who identified himself as a 26 year
old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear.

My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started.
The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my
progress.
Monday:

Started my day at 6:00 am.
Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health
club to find Bruce waiting for me.
He is something of a Greek God -
with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo!!

Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on
the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to
standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit.
I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my
workout today. Very inspiring. Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups,
although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.
This is going to be a
FANTASTIC week!

Tuesday:
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door.
Bruce made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air- then he put weights
on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile.
Bruce's rewarding smile made it
all worthwhile. I feel GREAT!! It's a whole new life for me.

Wednesday:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying on the toothbrush on the counter and moving
my mouth back and forth over it.
I believe I have a hernia in both
pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked
on top of a GEO in the club parking lot.

Bruce was impatient with me,
insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too
perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY
annoying.
My chest hurt when I got on
the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. Why would anyone invent a
machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?
Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life..... He said a bunch of other stuff too.
Thursday:
Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were
pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half an hour late, it took me
that long to tie my shoes.
Bruce took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in
the women's room. He sent Lars to find me.
Then, as punishment, put me on the
rowing machine-which I sank.
Friday:
I hate Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history
of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic little cheerleader. If there was a part of my
body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you
don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me barbells or anything that weighs more than a
sandwich. (Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and
graduated magna cum laude from.)
The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher.
Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Saturday:
Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I
did not show up today. Just hearing him made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I
lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up watching eleven straight hours
of the Weather Channel.
Sunday:
I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that
this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for
me that is fun -- like a root canal or a hysterectomy
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