OK, so there is this 30-year-old cutie pie who plays drums in our church band. I see him a lot at church, of course, and we're friends. He's very flirty, but it's all in fun. His wife also is in the band. They have a 1-year-old cutie-patootie son.
The drummer also is a trainer at the gym to which I belong, and my dues include two hours of consulting and training with him. So last week, my first time, he showed me some stretches and leg machines, etc. On Sunday he made an appointment for me to come in today for a "fitness evaluation."
Why it didn't dawn on me what this was before I agreed to it, I'll never know. A fitness evaluation is, of course, when the trainer takes your health
and fitness history, talks about goals and such A-N-D ... T-A-K-E-S ...
A ... M-E-A-S-U-R-E-M-E-N-T- ... O-F ... E-V-E-R-Y... I-N-C-H ... O-F
... Y-O-U-R ... B-O-D-Y!
CAN YOU SAY MORTIFIED?
Weight, body fat percentage, hips, thighs, arms, chest. He measured me
with a tape measure, then used some squeezy thing to measure body fat
percentage on my arms and leg and stomach UNDER MY SHIRT. He actually kneeled on the floor in front of me, put his arms around my waist and tape-measured me. Then he said, "Lift up your shirt" and he used the pincky thing on me.
Then he made me get on the scale. In front of him. He now officially knows more about me than anyone in the world. He even knows more about me than I do myself because I refused to look at the numbers. I have sworn
him to secrecy on threat of death. But he said he's going to do a
Temple Talk at our church about me when I lose all the weight. I like that he said "when" and not "if." And he did give me some great advice about working out.
But, I am still dying. I am dying. Kill me now, please, just shoot me because I am dying. Oh, Lord, I'm dying.