That Backfired.

Jon had his personal training session last Thursday. Unlike me, whose session was run by a male treehugger in a pair of khakis with a ponytail halfway down his back and hellbent on serving me a hefty portion of punishment, Jon was set up with "Angie."

"Angie" turned out to be a tanned, professional dancer for the Milwaukee Bucks. As in the NBA.


Tricky man that he is, Jon started the session by saying, "my wife couldn't walk for days, so I'd like to take it easy." What ensued, I can only surmise, was a few pushups, a lap around the basketball court, and a lovely 30-minute coffee chitchat on the merits of "professional dancing." For when he arrived at Bootleggers bar to join me and friends for Trivia Night after the alleged workout, there was no awkward walk from soreness, no red face, no request for salves (I came prepared) - nothing but a chipper and relaxed Una.

Meanwhile, I've still got a near-empty tube of Icy Hot in my purse. I think it's pretty obvious who got the shaft in this situation.

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