Adventures in Personal Training: Tiff Edition

Today, the inevitable finally happened. My personal trainer and I got into a tiff.

(What is a “tiff”? Someone remind me to do a Real Talk on it, please.)

Perhaps he was edgy because I was too tired to make small talk. Maybe he just sees a lot of potential in me, and wants to push me to reach it. Whatever the reason, I’d had enough of his stupid cheerleading.

“Three, two, one, explode!” He kept saying this as I strained beneath too much weight attached to a pole. Bench press, I think they call it. Whatever. He’d say it, and I’d strain and my feet would scrabble on the ground to help my aching arms and I’d clench my eyes shut. And he’d pause for me to explode, and then repeat himself in the hopes that it was just a timing issue.

It was not.

“You can say that all you want,” I raged as I valiantly tried to, at the very least, spark. “But it’s not going to happen.”

That, of course, led to a heart-to-heart about how he’s trying to push me so that my body, which is just aching to be bigger, will grow in size. As if I needed lessons in what grim determination consists of.

Possibly to make it up to me, he later shared that he has broken three beds (or the same bed three times?) with his sex. There are a lot of layers to our relationship.

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