If I had chosen to report on my first training session soon after it ended, say about five hours ago (aside from the fact that I would not have been able to move my arms to type, or focus my eyes) I would have told you that it was even worse than I had feared.
As I sat contemplating the experience and waiting for the Divine Ms B to come claim the body, I wished I had thought to weigh myself before I started. I reasoned that if I could somehow compensate for the weight of the sweat I so prodigally left on every surface of the gym, I could actually scientifically establish the masses of my Self Esteem and my Will to Live, since both were completely absent from my body by the end of the session.
J assigned J2 to be my personal trainer. My early thinking was that J2 is a likable young man, who laughed at all my self-deprecating jokes and kept up a jolly banter with me while I struggled through the routines. It is amazing how he can talk and count to 20 at the same time; probably a necessary skill in his job. At the beginning of the hour I really admired this numerical multi-tasking. Toward the end, I have to admit, it wasn't as much fun.
Another thing I have to say about J2 is that his sense of humor sort of disappeared as we progressed through the hour. As just one example, when we were about 3 minutes away from the full 60, and I was wishing for death, he said to me, "Now, lie down here on your back and we'll just finish off with some crunches." See, that was hilarious. It was a perfect opportunity for him to look at me and say, "Psyche!" or "Punked!" or "Gotcha!" or something. He might even have gotten a smile out of me. But no. Such was the absolute degradation of J2's sense of humor that he actually expected 20 crunches out of me. Twice. (Disclosure statement: It could be he only got 35 out of me. I can't say for sure whether I did 20 or just 15 on the second set; my mind was busy plotting revenge, and I had long since quit listening to his infernal counting.)
Of course, I understand now that I've had time to rehydrate and think a little. It turns out that J2 is a university student at a certain local university where I happen to be a professor. Now we are not at all in the same fields, mine being mathematics education and his being comparative literature. We seldom would even walk through each others' buildings. But J2 made the mistake of admitting that he's going through a perfect storm of papers and projects being due right now, and even indicated that he might be a little frustrated with some of his professors. So along comes this nondescript fat guy, a PROFESSOR with pitchfork and barbed tail and everything, the Good Dr. Effigy, just begging, it seems, to be punished on behalf of his entire profession. I'm sure J2's feeling a lot better about school tonight.
On the other hand, my students will likely suffer for his actions tomorrow in class. I will walk in, wincing at my sore muscles, and there will be 20 little J2's looking up at me. Wow. And me with a midterm left to grade, and a final exam to write. This can't end well.
Anyway, I took a hot-cold-hot-cold-hot-cold-hot shower, which is supposed to pump some of the lactic acid out of my muscles, ate a turkey sandwich, and went to work, and now I'm feeling better. Tomorrow will tell how well the shower worked. J2 told me I'd pretty much hate him tomorrow. We'll see.
I have another session scheduled Thursday. I'm still planning on going.