Somehow I Think He Already Knows

...OH CRAP! There he is. Why is he waiting for me in the parking lot? And WHY is he smiling?

I do my best to muster up my best smile. Nope, didn't work. Best I can do is one of those "I really can't stand the person I'm smiling at" kinda smiles. He just got back from one of those conferences. He's so obsessed with today's session, that he doesn't even sense that I want to just run away. He calls it the "I missed you so much" workout. What's he carrying? "Oh FUDGE." Except I didn't say "fudge".

"I have to go to the bathroom (and crawl out the window)", I tell him.

I turn the corner into the weight room, and he's kneeling on the floor putting something together. Just a quick note. If you get to your session, and your trainer is sitting on the floor "building" a piece of equipment, take a deep breath and induce vomiting. He's screwing in a top. "What's that, a musket?" "Ha. You wish." Just when I was getting used to the idea of the exercise noose, that T-Rex, or whatever the hell it is.

He hands me a 5-pound bar with resistance tubing attached to it, that's connected to another piece of resistance tubing, that's attached to another 5-pound bar that he's holding. HEY! I was there. I've seen the horror, and they call him "Cyborg".

"Ok, stand on that balance trainer facing the wall. Drop your hips, then brace your core." Then what? Breakdance and spin on my head, right? No. Worse. He tells me to extend my arms so that the bar is in front of my chest. He starts to walk away. Just as I start to twist towards him, he shouts, "DON'T LET ME MOVE YOU!" 25...24..23...SECONDS? "Ok good. Other side." Let me catch my breath first Metal Head.

He comes over and turns the balance trainer over. Whew, push-ups. I got this one. "Burpees, 5 sets, 30 seconds each." In the immortal words of Charlie Brown, "ARRRRRGH!" Down, jump back into a plank, jump back in, stand up, lift the balance trainer overhead, then jump. About half way through, I look at him. To his credit, he knows exactly what I'm thinking. The bad news is, he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and shakes his head no. Last one. He slaps his hands together and shouts, "THAT'S IT!" I really should consult a member of his family to find out which one dropped him on his head when he was a baby. Should I ask? He's insane. Should I tell him? Forget it.

I don't ever want to be his first session when he's back from a conference, EVER AGAIN. It's always the same thing. It's like an alien autopsy. He's asks how I'm feeling. I grit my teeth and whisper, "I hate you." "What?" "OH! I'm GREAT. You?"

Before it's all said and done, I've finished 8 "sequences" as he calls them. My quads are sore, my abs hurt, and the amount of sweat pouring from by body could fill an Amherst, Massachusetts pothole. Really, you gotta see these things. They're tremendous. I digress.

He's giving me a look. I ask him if he's eaten today. "Huh?" Nevermind. Just as I'm leaving I notice a commercial on one of the club's televisions. Series finale of "24". Oh I get it, no more Jack Bauer. DAMMIT!

Why is he taking it out on me?