fat fat fat
Me: “Last week. I got stitches. In my groin.”
Me: “You’d think. But no.”
Ive not been to the gym in a week. Tried an ‘upper body only’ day but couldnt stay off the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine. I’m a glutton for punishment. My stitches bled. Ive had one day with my new trainer. She made me puke. She doesnt know this. But she did. She’s teeny and fit and looks like Nicole Ritchie. She told me about some diet drug the NHS is funding for really fat people.
“Not that youre fat,” she says, “Youre not endangering your health or anything like that.”
Nice. I cant lose weight. You should know this. Ive had my thyroid checked three times. I know. Dont say it.
My last trainer was too calm. Too balanced. She taught me to work that pilates ball like nobody’s business, and whittled away at my back fat until I could see a few muscles dance. She was ok. but.. I need someone to make me throw up in a ‘run and train until you fall over and vomit’ sort of way. Youve not pushed yourself hard enough if you dont throw up. I want that kind of trainer. I think I’ve got her.