I joined a gym a few weeks ago…

(Thank you, thank you. Really, you’re too kind. Now, I must ask that you hold all further applause until the end of the post.)

It’s been going well so far. I especially like the fact that there are eight TVs planted right in front of the treadmills/bikes, with a little thing on each machine you can plug into your earphones so you can hear the audio. If only they showed Veronica Mars live, I’d for sure be there every Wednesday at 9pm.

With my membership came six sessions with a personal trainer. I have Steve. He’s been pretty good although it’s striking to me how different our lives are. I’m a married woman, an engineer, with two little kids; he’s a young single dude who is putting off university for a while so he can pursue competitive body building. Yesterday I asked him how old he actually is, and found out he is NINETEEN.

It’s really freaky to me that I can now have business-type interactions with people — people who don’t work at McDonald’s — who are young enough that I could actually BE THEIR MOTHER. Crimey. I’m offically in the older generation! To Steve, I’m HIS PARENTS’ AGE!

This gym thing better shave off a few years, as well as pounds, is all I can say.