Every Saturday, at 4:30pm, I take my mother to church (unless I'm sunning my arse somewhere on vacation---then, it's my brother's job). Usually, we walk in and she marches straight up the middle aisle and sits way up front, on the left.
I, in turn, take my sweet time getting to my seat---talking, schmoozing, telling jokes, and comparing sports scores with the people around me. I'm a ham like that.
This past Saturday was no different. My mother was already sitting down in her pew when I stopped to talk to some of my church peeps. This is the conversation that ensued (names changed to protect the innocent):
Me: Helloooooo, amigos!
Mary: Hey! I read your blog. I saw the pictures of your TRAINER!
Me: Did you? Yeah...She's trying to kill me.
Me: Yep. I'm convinced. Last week, I couldn't unbend my arms. This week, my guts hurt.
Mary: Wow! So she's tough?
Just then, Peep #2---Tom, chimed in. He's in his 60's and sits with his wife and his friend, Mary every week...
Tom: What the heck do you go to a trainer for, anyway?
Mary: BECAUSE she wants to wear a coconut bra.
Me: Because I need to lose weight!
Tom: Well, you don't see what I see. Go home and take another look in a mirror! You're hair....You're face...You're body...I THINK YOU'RE PERFECT JUST THE WAY YOU ARE.
Tom's Wife: He doesn't like women that are too skinny. He like a little meat on their bones.
Me: Well, alrighty then....
As I walked away and approached my seat--next to my mother, I couldn't help but conclude a few things.
One? What Tom said to me---that I was PERFECT just the way I am---was possibly the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me (excluding my husband). And if I was twenty years older and/or Tom was twenty years younger and if neither one of us was married? I STILL wouldn't marry Tom because he's NY Yankees fan. Sorry...There's just some sh*t I can't get past.
Second? I've never thought of myself as meaty before. And I kind of like it!
And finally? Two weeks ago, I couldn't unbend my arms. Last week? My guts hurt. This week? My legs are complete junk (mainly my thighs) and I'm walking around like I pitched a major loaf in my high-cut briefs.
Dudes, SERIOUSLY...I think my trainer IS trying to kill me.