This morning, I dragged my huge ass out of bed and to the gym. I haven't gone to the gym since the film festival took over my life, and having spent the past 2 weeks eating and drinking obscene amounts of crap, I can barely fit out the door. Thus, I'm hell bent kicking my own ass into gear and looking fabulous for the holidays.
I love my gym, the ghetto Potrero Hill 24 Hour Fitness, because apparently, you have to be hideous to join. It's the least intimidating gym on earth, filled with immigrants and the elderly. There are no cute boys to worry about, and no one is in shape. Save of course, for my trainer, Marion. Marion isn't really my trainer anymore, but whenever she sees me, she kind of follows me around, encouraging me and upping my incline on the treadmill.
Marion is of course, stunning. She's 29, perfectly toned and tan, and Swedish. She's all blue-eyed and blonde, with the accent and everything. And she wanders around in a tiny sports bra and low rise designer sweat pants. Her abs scream from across the room, "You'll never posess me, cow." as she inquires as to my life and gym progress, both of which are dismal.
The thing about Marion is that she'll push you until you can barely breathe, grasping the hand rail for dear life, and then suddenly asks "Do you have any pets?"
"Can't talk...no pets...must slow stairmaster..."
"Oh Beth. Come on. You rock so hard! Yes? Keep it going, now."
After forcing me to hike 4 miles uphill, and then climb 20 flights of stairs, Marion, who's no longer my trainer, mind you, decides to join me up in the weight room. Forcing me onto the ab roller, she screams out "200!" and with each curl, I feel my soul drain out of me, onto the filthy floor. I stare up at Marion's perfect, flawless, appalling stomach, and pray for mercy. On curl 36, I'm ready to kill myself. At 100, I'm allowed a break, in so much pain, I'm about to cry. And Marion pipes up and says, "Keep rolling, ab roller! I talk so you forget and sooner you get done. You gonna look sooooo hot, sister!"
Fuck you, Nordic Princess. Fuck you and your Juicy Couture. Fuck you and your protein suppliments. Fuck you and your thighs that will never touch.
After 90 minutes in the goddamn gym, Marion decides I'm done.
And now, of course, I feel fabulous. I'm sore, I can't really move, and I know that no matter how many curls I do on that stupid ab roller, Marion and I come from different planets. Apparently, cheesecake only exists on my planet. Irregardless, I feel all healthy and wonderful, blood flowing through once dormant veins.
I'm not sure how long Marion intends to keep up her gratis boot camp, and while I'm in physical and emotional hell during my time with her, there is no fucking way I'd ever work out this hard without her.