I am seeing a personal trainer two days a week. Rose–she may sound like a delicate little flower, but don’t let her name fool you–Rose is a big meanie. And the stupid thing is, I’m paying her to be mean to me.

It’s hard for me to remember my days of athleticism. I played basketball, softball, and (begrudgingly) ran track. I played volleyball one year and dabbled with tennis in college. I lifted weights and played football with the boys on the weekend. I was an athlete.

Now, here’s the thing…even though I’m a large Marge, I’m still a very active chick. I walk and run and still play softball or basketball on occasion. I’m overweight but I’m not inactive. However, I hate the way I look in the mirror, so I’m trying my darndest to lose some of this extra padding.

I just don’t understand why I can’t lose weight while sitting on the couch drinking my Sierra Nevada. It’s really not fair.

I’m walking in the Double Decker 5K this weekend, so I tell Rose when I show up for my torture session to please take it easy on my legs so I can walk on Saturday. I shoulda just kept my damn mouth shut. She made me do two extra sets of walking lunges (somebody just shoot me) and today’s magic # was 25. So everything I did was in sets of 25.

I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.

Why couldn’t she just work me out the Hans and Franz way?