I hate science. I was never good at it.
Like that whole "If you eat less and exercise more, you'll be fabulous" bullshit.
None the less, I've got the wonderful Tim the Trainer kicking my ass three days a week. Each session gets harder and fucking harder and tends to end with me crying in the fetal position on the floor.
75 push-ups? You've got to be kidding me. 75 squats? Are you high? 75 crunches? Go fuck yourself.
But then I remember how hot Tim's wife Eve looks, visualize every man that's done me wrong and sweat.
I hate it.
I mean, Tim once told me to have a handful of nuts for lunch.
Get the hell out of here and bring me a pork bun.
And while my AA sponsor will be delighted to know I haven't cut back on the booze, I'm eating like a goddamn hippie. Even Melissa, who met me for dinner at Alfred's after one of my first sessions said, "If we need to do different shit..."
"You mean not drinking champagne all day?"
"Yeah. Anything you need. I'm in. We could, like, go to a museum or volunteer or something."
Awwww. Shut the shit up, size 0 and get me another Gibson.
I, living up to Europe's perception of our population, could eat a bagel and discover it on my ass 15 seconds later. And the concept of physical exertion burns my brain. I've been hating this foray into health and fitness but Tim and I made a deal that basically, my life would suck for a month.
I'm 2 and a half weeks in.
Swearing at Tim.
And then I put on my black pencil skirt.
Oh. Oh! Oh my god! Oh sweet Jesus smiling upon me and my grilled chicken over mixed field greens!
Up my ass to 100 squats, this science shit works...