Driving home tonight, I thought of something interesting and witty and just right for the writing of the blog. Somewhere between that drive, some raindrops and lying my sorry sore ass on the couch, it went away. And, when I say my sorry sore ass, I mean it figuratively not literally.

My asshole may be the one place on my body right now that is not sore. I mean sure, I like to push myself in the circuit training class on Mondays at the gym, but feeling the burn does not include anal. Thankfully.

The place of employ has a couple of different trainers come in during the week and force march those of us who volunteer to play grown up gym glass. I haven’t been going what with being busy, not giving a shit and all. Plus, I’m really enjoying the extra me that I’ve developed. (M. has been instrumental in the extra layers of me. A little while back he had the great idea of bananas, chocolate sauce and ice cream with a couple of spoons not far from bedtime. Before the half gallon was done, my ass had extrapolated.)

I’m in pain now, though, only because I just don’t like the Monday afternoon trainer. There’s something about his strut and preen in the mirror and his extra attention to the young, fit women in the class that brings out a perverse competitiveness that’s like sixth-grade gym class. Only it’s not my sixth-grade gym class, because then, in that oh so glorious awkward time of life, I was not competitive or macho. Jocks were jocks and I never ever never tried to outdo them.

But, now, some pent up, unused corner of my soul, the one I neglected in childhood where reading far outweighed sweating as a pursuit, that bit squats, stretches and pushes up with wild abandon. As though, at the end of the work out, I’m going to be able to throw the barbells down and just wail on the trainer. Knock his little baseball cap off and thrown him down UFC-style. It would have to UFC grounding and pounding, because he talks a lot about how he does all sorts of hard-ass, boot camp training like we’ve never seen with some kind of gang of mixed martial artists with whom he roams.

It says something meager and small about myself that I once even felt it necessary to let him know that I got his references to Ken Shamrock, Randy Couture and Chuck Liddell.

Here are my regrets then for tonight. If only I had been physically small when I was a little girl. And, if only I worked this hard at gym back when it was mandatory and went on my permanent record.

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