I bet Madonna gets to punch hers . . .

I am seeing another man. 



At my husbands suggestion.*

He tells me things like "well done" and "come on, you can do it" and "excellent stuff"

He smiles when he sees me.

He smiles, while I sweat, grunt and beg to stop.

He is deaf to my pleas of mercy.

At first I thought this was going to be the start of something wonderful.

Now I realise (after 1 hour) I am paying for the privilege of having my muscles stretched to new lengths and am developing a strong desire to hit my new man in the face.

Very hard.

Repeatedly.

All in the hope that my body is transformed into something magnificent and athletic**. However he has my money and I have another 8 hours of this ahead of me.

Be warned of the dangers of signing up to a personal trainer.


I bet Madonna gets to punch hers, repeatedly and very hard- have you seen the size of her muscles?!

I was foolishly under the impression that a Personal Trainer was a kind of glamorous thing to do but essentially it would get the results I am after- faster than I am doing myself. If you have read and understood anything of these posts and the warped personality that lies behind them you will realise that I am not a glamour hunting monkey. More an impatient, with high expectations, kind of Hippo!!


I am told that our sessions will include Pilate's and some boxing. Poor guy is literally not going to know what has hit him when it comes to that boxing session . . .






* I think this is because he was bored of hearing me moan and whinge that 3 Legs, Bums and Tums classes a week were doing nothing for me. Now he has to listen to me moan and whinge that I can't brush my own hair because I can't lift my hands above my own head. I think he might also regret my handing over our hard earned cash for 9 hours of personal training.


** I may in fact be getting trained up for the Commonwealth Games!