Tim the Trainer appeared on my doorstep this morning at 7:59.
Ugh, a minute early? What the fuck, Tim.
The first thing out of his mouth? "So how was the tiramisu?"
The great thing about Tim is that he's become my friend, a fabulous sounding board for the constant personal drama I invite into my life. And he has really good stories that begin with things like, "Did I ever tell you about the time a retarded woman sexually assaulted me?"
The horrible thing about Tim is that he reads my blog and figures out I ate tiramisu on Sunday morning. Tim's the one who suggests you have a handful of nuts or a spinach shake for lunch. Me shoving tiramisu in my mouth after 8 servings of rack of lamb probably ain't kosher with Hermann Goering.
"Tim, it's not like I ate the whole thing?"
"No, no. I love tiramisu."
Yeah right. Don't think I'm not wildly aware I'll be paying for that tiramisu in the form of blood, sweat and tears.
During our three-day-a week workouts, I tend to do the halfway dance. The halfway dance is basically me making it halfway through a set of push-ups or burpies at which point I step side to side and tell Tim I hate him. He responds by either complimenting me ("Your legs look so different. It's amazing!") or by acting like I'm a big wimp ("Alright, 10 more. Come on. We're not chatting. We're working out.") both of which play upon my insecurities and thus, work.
But I've discovered, if in the midst of the dreadful stair jump I ask, "Why are we doing this?" I'll get to break for a whole minute while Tim explains muscle things to me.
Oh, push-ups? Why is this good?
"Well, it works out your ... No more talking! 20 more."
Tim also takes great pride in others noticing my progress.
"Any new compliments?"
"No. But a woman recognized me at a bar and sent over free drinks!"
The only people who notice my slightly smaller ass are my co-workers and my mother, herself now a client of Tim the Trainer. As is Zoe, the goddamn marathon runner.
"Zoe's really tough."
Yeah, asshole. I know. She's also blonde and brilliant and charming. You both can suck it.
I complain and whine obviously, but uh, turns out, I'm sitting at my desk in a dress I haven't worn since my 29th birthday party. And I just caught myself in the bathroom mirror.
Oh. Okay. Yep. A little bit. Yay.
Tim can still suck it, though. 7:59am. Sweet Jesus...