- Whoa. Dude. Exercise? Me?
Got to the club. Was assigned a Personal Trainer. He carried a little note card around, said he was gonna make notes for exercises that would help make my ‘Menopause Journey’ a ‘healthier’ prospect for me and get my daughter into an ‘active’ life-style. He’s a total hottie. I wink at the daughter. She winks back.
Machine number one:
Personal Trainer: Let’s start out by warming up. Hop on the treadmill and give me 10, trotting.
Daughter: Trotting on machine next to mine. Zen-esque. Beaming at the hottie. Show off.
Me: I wonder if he meant 10 seconds? I’ve been trotting for well over a lifetime and the clock on the machine says I’m only up to one minute. Holy crap. I’m ready for a nap. Hope this is all he expects today. Is it normal to fall off the machine?
Machine number two:
Personal Trainer: Now that we’re warmed up, let’s try some resistance exercises.
Me: Good Grief! Should I tell him I just herniated my heart? Lacerated my liver? Exploded my spleen? Several people on other machines are staring at my beet-red face with concern and murmuring amongst themselves.
Daughter: Drops into the chair, adds 10 lbs to her recommended weight and powers through the first set. I don’t like the smirk on her face.
Machine number three:
Personal Trainer: This is my favorite for Buns of Steele.
Me: Call 911. I’m sure I just heard something pop. I think it was my spine. I swear I can’t feel my legs. Woman on machine next to me asks if I need defibrillator paddles.
Daughter: Don’t know where she is, as she has already completed three sets. I hear her singing somewhere in the distance. She’s grounded.
Machine number four:
Personal Trainer: This one is guaranteed to give you a six-pack.
Me: Someone get me a six-pack. Stat. With a Ringer’s lactate chase. I’m hearing the Hallelujah chorus and am heading toward the light. I’ve decided I LIKE the way my thighs sag. And what’s wrong with wearing a bra sized 38-Long? Are we done yet?
Daughter: High-fiving the Pilates instructor. I hate her.
Machine number five:
Personal Trainer: Feel the burn.
Me: My head is spinning. I can’t focus. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. Have I given birth to my lower intestine? Should hemorrhoids fill your pants out that way? My shrieks of pain are drawing looks of annoyance from the other members. Up theirs. And the barbell they rode in on.
Daughter: Joined several peers for a quick game of racquet ball. She’s so outta the Will.
Machine number six:
Personal Trainer: This one’s for the Gipper!
Me: Shoot me. I don’t care. I stopped breathing 10 minutes ago anyway. Someone call the morgue. I think I’ve had a series of mini-strokes because I’m drooling now and have lost the ability to communicate in anything other than Klingon.
Daughter: She’s fifteen. Close enough. She’s driving us home. Now.
Looking forward to tomorrow.