So a year ago in the summer time The Lovely Rhonda and I were going to the gym and stuff, and it was all fine and good but then I started working nights and it so messed me up that I stopped going. I was so exhausted and sick from working nights that exertion made me nauseous. Plus I was super grumpy.
Finally I’ve started going again, and I’ve once again engaged a personal trainer at the gym. He’s quite nice and his name is Andy and I think I will work well with him. He’s enthusiastic without being obnoxiously perky.
At any rate, in keeping with tradition I’ll be referring to him as Helga. I’ve decided that all personal trainers are named Helga regardless of their nationality. Or gender. They are all channeling an East German swim coach who eats muesli and yogurt and goes for healthful marches about the countryside, braiding flower garlands and singing anthems of some kind all the while. Helga is sturdy, no-nonsense, practical, and will dismiss your whining by snapping curtly, “VE HAFF VAYS UFF MAKINGK YOU SVEAT, FLABBY AMERICAN VIMP!”
So, Helga started me off pretty easy, and I grimace fondly each time I get in and out of the car. Because my quadriceps are now made out of rubber.