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Tuesday 200 - #60

“Come on!” he barked. “Another set’s not going to kill you.”

I wasn’t so sure, but rather than be yelled at, I took a deep breath, adjusted the barbell atop my shoulders, and squatted down to begin another 10-12 reps.

Had I time to ponder, I might have questioned paying $70 an hour to be abused by Ip Ycack, my Czech ex-miliatry police trainer. Locker-room gossip assured me that an extra thirty dollars would have his much hotter brother abusing me in more pleasurable positions, without the confines of gym clothes.

“Six … seven … three more … ,” Ip growled.

He said early on that if I didn’t push till I wanted to puke, I wasn’t working hard enough.

“Nine … COME ON … ten! Good work, mate,” he said, taking the bar off my back. My head was spinning and he slid the bucket towards me as my legs gave out and my stomach rejected the pre-workout protein shake.

You have to pay to have body of a 25-year old. I’m beginning to think it might be easier, and perhaps more cost-effective, to buy the hooker’s than to reshape mine.

At least I wouldn’t be bullied into bulimia.

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