Some fit moms….(hereinafter “skinny moms”) were raving about their hard core trainer.  He comes to you – no gym membership. Brings all the equipment.  He is 40 dollars an hour which if you split it with another similarily situated bodyfat percentage means 20 bucks each.  So, I booked it.

But alone.  I’m just not ready to expose my wobbly bits to others.  Nor admit I am not fit. Publicly.

I arrived at the park on time to find a tall African American fellow called Tyrone? Did you already have that visual when I said the name Tyrone? I mean, my peeps are usually named Chaim, Moshe, maybe David.  This guy  looked a bit like SEAL.  And I ain’t no Heidi Klum look alike.

This guy is serious business.  Shit. I knew five minutes in I was outclassed and in deep doo doo.  I was in the midst of my first run around the soccer field “take two laps” planning a way to simply keep running and come back for the car later.  And I tried every trick in the book to make the guy laugh to cut me some slackeroo.  No dice.  Humorless. Like the Sargent in officer and a gentlemen.

He made me do high knee fast rep running (really horrible if you have the aforementioned ever growing boobs (see previous blogpost).  And more running. And a gazillion of these awful fast burst jumps with weights (alslo problematic with boobage). Did I mention more running. And then more pushups then Demi Moore with her shaved head.  You get the image.  He even used a flip flop and tried to get me to push up low enough for my chest to touch….the one moment where the boobs might’ve been to my advantage.

Bottom line. I was fucked. It was awful. Heaving. Sweating. Struggling. Humiliated. I mean I was built for fertility. He was built to run long distances across deserts.  He is like a gazelle.  A cougar.  A cheetah. I’m just not sure Tyrone and I are simpatico. I might need to never go back.  I might be too wimpy to admit that. Your feedback or encouragement is welcome.