Fold My Laundry Please

Today was a workout day for Andrew and I.  Monday is the one day of four each week that we spend at the gym where I don’t have some class or other to attend.  Instead of tripping over my own feet and gasping for breath in front of 30-ish other out of shape people while attempting to keep up with the perky instructor, I start my Monday workout with 45 minutes of tripping over my own feet and gasping for breath in front of 50-ish other out of shape people on the stairmaster while attempting to stay on top of the machine. 

Sidenote:  Oh, Stairmaster, why dost thou hatest me so?

After I finished liberally sprinkling the stairmaster with sweat this evening, I headed down to the weight room.  Each day I’m at the gym, whether I have a class or I just make myself look ridiculous in the cardio room, I have an appointment immediately afterward with my Personal Training Na-zi.  I’ve become convinced that this man spends all of his free time thinking up new ways to send me home crying.  He views the fact that even the simplest of household tasks (pushing down the lever on the toaster while heating up some frozen waffles for example) can cause me pain, to be a personal triumph.  Does it matter to him whether or not I actually feel like working on my back muscles that day?  No.  He believes that because my biceps aren’t symmetrical (My baby holding arm has more muscle.  Go figure.) I must work harder, lift more, and quit whining so much.

*sigh*

If I weren’t married to the man, I would seriously think about firing him.  That and the fact that I have now lost an entire inch on my waistline have convinced me to let him keep the job!