I’ve been in a pseudo barbaric relationship with my personal trainer for a year now. I’ve weighed pro against con and have arrived at the same conclusion each time – John has to go. Other than the humiliation heaped upon me and the excruciating pain he joyfully inflicts for one hour every week, he’s a tolerable guy. But the fairy tale must end sometime. Our Beauty and the Beast role-play is not really working for me. A girl can only be the Beast for so long. So, to my masochistic Beauty, I must say ‘fare thee well.’ I’ve enclosed this letter so that it may serve to guide you in future liasons and save some other Joe Schmoe from the agony of reaching for horizons that are clearly unattainable.
Our first date together resides as a distant memory in the foggy Chi of my brain. My recollection of the ease with which you sucked me into your cat and mouse game of pushing the outer limits is frightening in retrospect. I should have recognized the warning signs of “just one more” for what it was – ultimate control at $90 an hour. Like several shades of grey, I gave into your lull of smoothie rewards after each tormenting session. My mind was confused; jumbled like so many rubber thigh bands tossed into the corner of the gym. I returned week after week seeking your praise only to leave demoralized, disheartened, and dejected. What does the soccer mom on Tuesdays have that eludes me like Bath & Bodyworks lavender oil swirling in a bowl of Evian?
Each week I show up in my newest Fabletics purchase praying that you will take it easy on me. But you are always too busy staring at your own triceps in the barre mirror behind the Tony Little gazelle to notice my new $29 matching lycra suit, nor does it seem to evoke empathy. Additionally, I must point out that your shiny man-tights are highly distracting when I’m trying to concentrate on 10 sets of ab crunches. Can you not wear baggy sweatpants just one time?
The so-called exercise regime that you insist I master every month is nothing more than a poor disguise for the abasement you lump onto me like a pile of stale mashed potatoes. You use harsh words that hurt my feelers: faster, more, better. I’m but a mere couch potato trying to make my way to the other side of athletic heaven, which turns out to be a sad illusion for Dante’s 9 Circles of Hell. My Herculean training efforts are chronicled in this fantastic read, The Divine Comedy. (Photo by bc.edu)
Desperately trying to come to terms with our relationship, I sought counsel from members of my quilting club. It was difficult for them to envision you as the health swami I had built you up to be. 94-year old Marta did want to know if she could have your number after I described the thrusting butt crunch exercise. She said she’s working on her glutes. Gertrude inquired as to how much you charge for a house call – she needs her pool cleaned. The sage wisdom I gleaned from these 8 women (728 collective years of scandalous living) has helped me see you for what you are – an abusive, Mikhail Baryshnikov wanna-be, megalomania. Heat seeking missile that you are, this is goodbye and good riddance.
Please send me a refund for the afternoon that you quoted Keats while I languished on the stair climber. My tears impeded the entire workout experience.