I don't want to know about your workout..but read about mine

Okay, I've been a blogger for three days now. Which means I have to waste precious moments during the day reading other people's blogs so I can see what they're writing about and how mine stacks up. Some fitness nut wrote the last blog I read. How do I know he was a fitness nut? Well, the blow by blow description of his last jog in mountainous terrain - complete with split times taken from his stopwatch - was a clue. This thing was so detailed that I assume he must have been typing while running. I just know I never want to get cornered by this guy at a party.
So there I was running up the steepest slope in the Adirondacks and I saw that only 29.55 had elapsed. So I....hey, where is everybody going?

I joined a fairly upscale suburban health club a few years ago. Suburban health clubs are mostly populated with desperate housewives-types who schedule hour long workouts with personal trainers and actually work out about five minutes, spending the other 55 subliminally discussing their sexual fantasies.

TRAINER: Okay Margie, do one more set of sit ups.

MARGIE: Should I spread my legs like this? Or like this?

I don't feel workouts should be social events. Let's face it, you're sweating like a pig while attempting to contort your body into positions that only an infant can achieve. If that's social, people would come to parties dressed in Danskin leotards and muscle shirts and take turns doing curls with liquor bottles.

I'll admit I did hire a personal trainer recently. For some reason, I decided my "abs" needed work. Maybe it was seeing the glut of infomercials featuring well oiled, hairless men who, as far as I can determine, don't even own shirts. They just walk through life shirtless, even in January, so everyone can gawk at their rock hard, chiseled six packs.

My personal trainer was Dave, a guy who apparently left his neck at home that morning. I had asked Dave simply to show me some exercises that I could do in hotel rooms since I travel a great amount. Dave must have misunderstood because, within seconds, he was forcing me to do exercises that would leave me dead in a hotel room. All of them involved lying down (the easy part) and doing something (the hard part) Usually it meant lifting my upper body until my "abs" felt as if they would explode out of my "ass." Dave's job, for 50 bucks an hour, was to occasionally remind me to "keep breathing." Apparently somebody must have stopped breathing on his watch, hence the reminder. Or perhaps it was a reminder from the club's attorneys.

To make matters worse, Dave asked me to do these exercises while holding a medicine ball. This surely eliminated my chances of flirting with the desperate housewives. But, as Dave pointed out, a gallon jug of water could be substituted for the medicine ball so I could still do the exercises in hotel rooms. Of course, that means putting a milk jug in my carry on luggage but it seems a small price to pay for rock hard abs.

Okay, that's it. You can stop reading about my workout. Hopefully you did it in under 30:04:02.