Just My Luck

Well, they say the family that lifts together, uhh, . . . .sifts together. No.
The family that pumps together uhh, ... jumps lumps together. No.

The family that goes into a gym and lifts weights together until they want to puke, uhh, ... well, they're more likely to keep it up. Or so the theory goes.

So the Divine Ms B is joining me on my odyssey. I think that's nice, actually. It really will make it easier if we're both trying to spend some time there. It will be more pleasant to go together.

So the Divine Ms B has met with J, who has worked up an exercise program, and suggested she lose about, oh, say, 17.3% as much weight as I have to, and gotten her started working with her own personal trainer. We'll refer to the personal trainer in this case as M.

Only here's the trouble, apparently:

J2, my personal trainer

M, my wife's personal trainer

When I called the Divine Ms B after her first session to see how she felt, she said, "Oh, I was great. I really enjoyed it." Huh?!? ENJOYED it?!? I was a long way from "enjoyed it" at the end of my first session. I was still a long way from "really hated it"-- it would have had to improve some to get there. I was more like, "survived it," as I lashed out irrationally and tried to slap the person who asked. (I would have failed, of course, because I couldn't move my arms.)

I can see it all: as I sit there, struggling through my last set of 20 military presses, and J2 says, "Ha! You feelin' that? That feel good?", barely suppressing his evil cackle, M is over there with my wife, saying, in hushed tones, "Does that feel fluffy enough? It should sort of tickle. Careful, now."

It ain't fair.