There are few things I like less than exercising. For the record, these include dying, eating poison, math and extracting jewelry from the toilet.
And yet, for reasons I can’t quite explain, my husband and I signed on with a personal trainer in January.
We had been batting the idea around for a while. But last December, at a fun neighborhood party in a neighborhood not our own, I struck up a conversation with an artist friend who had been going to a personal trainer with her husband.
Operative phrase: had been. Meaning: They were no longer going for various reasons, including pain and disillusionment. But somewhere between the vegetarian sushi and the cheese balls and the chocolate toffee brownies, I decided I was going to sign us up. And because misery loves company, I invited another couple to join us. Which, inexplicably, they did.
I won’t name names, but the trainer we selected works out of a bare-bones space that looks and feels nothing like a gym. On first glance, there appeared to be almost no exercise equipment; after a few weeks, however, objects that had barely registered began to take on torturous lives of their own, like shadowy dream images that morph into killers.