TheBanyanTree: The Woman Is Trying To Kill Me

[NancyIee at aol.com]

I joined a gym.

I don't know why.  I can only go there after I have done morning chores, 
clean the horse stalls, carry feed and hay to the horses, fill water tanks, adn 
rake out the chicken coop now and then.

But, I joined a gym, and i go thee two or three mornings each week. I get my 
own personal trainer, you know, the gal who comes up with the sort of 
activities to help you reach whatever goal you have. I don't really want to lose 
weight, but to trim up, firm those things that need firming, get the old ticker 
going now and then.

She has me bending in ways my body does not bend. She loads me with weightts 
that would cripple a longshoreman. I run for miles or go 
"cross-country-skiing" on machines designed to build my stamina . .for naps and a hot fudge sundae.

I hurt where I stand. I hurt where I sit. I hhurt to type. I hurt to push 
food into my mouth.

"Don't give me that hateful look," the gal scolds when she comes up with yet 
another form of physical torture.

Yet.

I can feel it.  After a couple of weeks of hating that size-six, hard-body 
woman, I am learning to appreciate her efforts.  I can feel it.

I think I will even go back to the gym on those days when I don't have an 
appointment with my trainer. I think I am trading in my flab for something 
tighter and better.

My trainer, by the way, is forty-six, and in 2004, won a 
weightlifting/body-building tournament for woman of any age.

You fast-food teens out there should only hope to look that good.

Bye, folks. I am going back to the gym.


NancyLee