The personal trainer or how I lost all feeling in my upper body

Apparently I've been to the gym so often now that someone actually thinks I'm a gym bunny and decided to send me a coupon for a free personal training session. I've never turned down a freebie before so I said thank you and booked a session.

I got hunky blond and cute James, who is, like, this tall (holds out arm upto my armpit) and very buff. He is of course, stronger than I am, (who isn't?) and so I never pat his head and say "there, there, now kiddo" even though I'm always tempted to.

Now I've done weights and all that before but obviously whatever I've been doing is not working. So when I was asked what my goal with weight training was, I mumbled something cliche that you'd see on the cover of Men's Health or Fitness magazine. I'm trying to remember what I said exactly because thirty seconds later, I had this program in front of me, which I had to go through ("OK, we're not done now, about 6 more reps and then we can rest") and I wasn't sure if it would be inappropriate to cry. I chose not to and I went through the rest of the sets with quite a lot of heavy breathing. The thing with personal trainers is, you can't tell them when you think you're done, because you're not done till they tell you, oh no siree you're not.

That was yesterday. I biked home, a little numb. But today, I'm dying. Every muscle and joint hurts like hell. Ow. Like seriously ow. But I'm thinking that means we did something right. Ow.

Damn you, James. Damn you. I can barely push the buttons on my remote control. But at least I'll have killer pecs at the end of this.