Well, I’m back in the gym and it IS pretty…

Except for me. 

I’m fairly certain I’d be considered the “huitlacoche” on the otherwise immaculate ear of sweet corn that is the Woodside Tennis Club. 

Say it with me but pinch your nose, jut out your lower jaw and vote conservative while you do. 

“Whooodsiiide Tennissssh Clubb”

Where there’s excellent food, tasty beverages, lounge chairs, massages, hot tubs, saunas swimming pools and last but not least, torture chambers (the elite among us call these “workout facilities”).

The “initiation fee” grants me a whopping 20 minute one on one chat session with a personal trainer who will subsequently beat the bejeezus out of my *ss (donkey) just for the sheer delight of it. 

I think mine is called Mistress Kimberly. 

I’m certain she’ll be wearing an all black vinyl skin tight track suit, have #1 blue black hair with bangs and ruby red der lipenstift (lipstick to the uninitiated mistress servants among us).

I think she has black patent leather New Balance cross trainers with chrome spikes. (Ummm, kinda into it now…)

I can only imagine her first words to me will be “Kneel schlave” followed by “No wonda yoo ah heah. Yo boddy es so squeeshy und sahft” and “I veel beat yoo until you cahnt remembah yoo were boann”.  All with a gentle smile and gleam in her eye. 

I’m sure she’ll tell me it’s all out of love. 

In the meantime, 30 minutes on the treadmill watching FOOD F$&@ING VIDEOS and an upper body workout given to me by my BFF/Frenemy Emad (who works out constantly and when he’s not he’s dreaming about working out) (seriously, pm me and I’ll give you his address if you’ll kindly egg his house EVERY DAY FOR. EH. VER.)

Let’s just visit this scenario together why don’t we? I’m looking at my mushy, corpuscley self in the mirror while I pretend I’m one of the two biblical thieves (you know, the guys on either side of JC? I’m holding no illusions about any deity complex here) holding weights out at arms length and trying not to poopa la short pantalons while my buddy Jeff snort laughs behind me and tries (unsuccessfully I might add) not to wetta his own la short pantalons. 

Maybe it was the whistling and squeaking noises emanating from my straining fundament but I’m certain I summoned a lesser demon from the weight room floor (which subsequently WAS lava if you were wondering).

Anyway, after this SUCCESSFUL foray into what I will now consider “werkinowt”, I’m down for some more. 

Mistress Kimberly, I’m yours ️