Hi, are you a personal trainer? Yes, would you like me to feel your breasts?

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I’m in the very early stages of training for a marathon. When I say very early, I mean—very early. Just strengthening the legs, doing some light weights (high reps), working out four or five times per week. I don’t run much during the winter, A. Becaus I like to give my legs a season to recover; B. Because it’s freezing, and I hate running through cold weather.

Hence, I’ve been spending a good deal of time at the local New York Sports Club, where I’ll jump on the elliptical for 40 minutes, then do another 20 on the stair machine, then lift for 20. Or something like that. In fact, today I took my first-ever spin class. Brutally hard, brutally sweaty, brutally great. I plan on making it a part of my routine.

For Chanukah, my lovely wife bought me a three-pack session with one of the gym’s personal trainers. I was happy about this, because I’m sort of scattered when it comes to weights, and I wouldn’t mind getting a program to work on the stomach and build up some muscle. And yet, whenever I go to the gym—any gym—I’m always irked by the personal trainers.

It’s a high school thing, admittedly. In that particularly environment, they reign. They’re the cool kids, strutting around in their black NYSC staff T-shirts, mildly flexing. It’s especially irksome to watch the male trainers with female clients, because it’s so blatantly flirty. I mean, b-l-a-t-a-n-t. These guys love the ladies, and the ladies—especially the housewives—seem to love them. It’s an hour of flirty fantasy, and while it’s seemingly harmless, it’s akin to watching the star QB flirt with the head cheerleader. Or, actually, the head cheerleader’s mother.

That said, the gym has changed my life. I joined a year ago, having suffered through the basement treadmill (I was told it would become a coat stand. It did) and trying to keep up a running schedule through the frigid months (Not realistic for me). It gives me something to look forward to, and I dig watching TV while exercising.

Hell, where else can I watch the Keeping Up with the Kardashians without being complete embarrassed?

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