“Did you say 14 squats or 40?” Before Greg can speak, I launch into a feverish internal prayer for 14.
“I said 14,” responds Greg (the leader of our new morning workout), “but you have to HURRY UP! It’s all about not taking a break.”
Our coffee table has been pushed way off to the side to make room for the yoga mats, I’m sweating like a jackal and our dog is so freaked out by the flurry of activity, he’s camped out by the door, ready for a quick exit.
Somehow Greg has been reborn as an exercise physiologist/personal trainer based on two completed sessions with his new trainer, Ray, and one and half weeks of exercise. Ray has been schooling him in all things fitness related and Greg has been, shall we say, an eager student.
“If you can’t do a real push up, you can do the modified ones on your knees,” Greg says considerately.
I look up at Greg and see him smiling as if he’s expecting me to say “thank you” or “good idea!” He has no earthly clue that “SCREW YOU” is what’s actually forming on my lips. I want to tell him that I need a donut and I hate Ray, but I keep quiet.
Twenty minutes pass during which time I have squatted, pushed-up, sat-up, jumping jacked, “mountain climbed,” “crab crawled” and “suicide run” my ass off. It’s finally over and I’m not dead. I return Greg’s high-five with an eye-roll and an icy glare.
“0700 tomorrow? Same Time, Same Place?”
Where, oh, where did my lazy, tivo-watchin’, french fry lovin’ fiance go?