I’ve just returned from my twice-weekly junket to my personal trainer, Michele. The phrase “personal trainer” always sounded more sleek than what it actually entails. I imagined a posh gym with a Hollywood-glamorous 22-year-old blond giving me mild tasks with lightweight barbells. Instead Michele, a serious professional, bends, stretches and pushes me in unpleasant ways, some of which make me nearly pitch over to the rubber mat floor. For the most part, I wheeze, fart and forget to breathe. She’s endlessly patient with these antics and is quick with a “Good job, John!” It is an entirely undignified experience, but there’s something in her basement gym that makes matters even worse.
© 2024 John Oliver
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