[Bazf]

Dear Diary…
For my fiftieth birthday this year, my husband (the darling) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me. Although I am still in great shape, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.

I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer called James. He identified himself as a 25-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swimwear. My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started. The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

Monday:
Started my day at 6:00am. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find James waiting for me. He is something of a Greek God - blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Yummy!! James gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit.

I enjoyed watching the skilful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring. James was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, (although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around). This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!

Tuesday:
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out of the door. James made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air -- then he put weights on it! My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. His rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel GREAT!! It's a whole new life for me.

Wednesday:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by lying on the toothbrush on the worktop and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club car park. James was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasal whine that is VERY annoying.

My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so James put me on the stair monster. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by lifts? James told me it would help me get into shape and enjoy life. He said some other **** too.

Thursday:
James was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half an hour late; it took me that long to tie my shoelaces. He took me to work out with dumbbells. When he wasn't looking, I ran and hid in the men's toilets. He sent Hans to find me, then, as punishment, put me on the rowing machine -- which I sank.

Friday:
I hate that bastard James more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anaemic little bully. If there were a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

James wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the freakin' barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. (Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from.) The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?

Saturday:
James left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing him made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the damn Weather Channel.

Sunday:
I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband (the BASTARD) will choose a gift for me that is fun -- like a root canal or a hysterectomy.