Those were the marching orders from my personal trainer recently, as I once again attempted to avoid exercise. They say dentists are among the most hated professionals, but I think personal trainers and fitness coaches are right up there. They’re in great shape and do everything effortlessly, while your fat ass gets winded after five jumping jacks. Yet they feel the need to yell at you anyways.
“GO, GO, GO!”
I don’t want to go. And I’m cursing my parents for giving us their coat rack treadmill in the first place. Sure we bugged them for it for years, but now I realize it belongs back at their house, collecting dust in its rightful place.
“FASTER, FASTER, FASTER!”
Man he’s really on my ass today. And he’s hitting below the belt too. MJ just did 20 minutes on the treadmill and now this guy is making fun of me—insulting my very manhood—by insinuating my wife is better than I am. Well the joke’s on him because I figured out a long time ago MJ is better than me at just about everything, so I don’t feel bad at all. In fact, I’m so used to letting the defeat wash over me and bathing in its relaxing, lazy gooeyness that I have my own “ass dent” on the middle cushion of our couch. I could live there forever. Sitting there with my warm blanket and a bowl of ice cre—-
Screw you dude. Damn you’re annoying. Jesus Christ…fine. I will get on the goddamn treadmill if it means you will shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone. Are you looking? I’m on it. And now I’m running. You see this shithead? Because of your constant badgering, there’s a 255-pound freight train shaking the house and knocking trinkets off shelves. The little green army men on the floor must feel like Godzilla is about to ransack the living room, while our neighbors can only assume I’m violently jacking it to computer porn because of all the panting and wheezing.
Oh. Wow. Somehow through all the complaining I just ran a continuous mile. And I did it in under 10 minutes which is slow as hell for normal people, but a modern day miracle for my fat ass. Hmmm. I feel kind of good too. Sore, but good. Accomplished actually. I guess I owe my personal trainer a great big thank you after all.
“You were fast! Good job dad.”
Hey, at least this personal trainer doesn’t cost me anything except for food, milk and hugs. Thanks buddy!