Captive Client

The things you do for family....in this case, I'm the captive client of my cousin, Bri - the personal trainer. Never mention the need to get in shape in front of relatives who live to torture you using these machines that I'm sure were instruments of torture in the Middle Ages. The main reason is there's no escape - you can't quit because they know where you live and how to find you. My captive clienthood began last October - I figured the sore muscle component would end after the first few weeks of working out - I was SO WRONG! Bri, who apparently has watched too much Emeril recently, announced to me last week that she was taking my workout and "kicking it up a notch". What exactly does that mean? For me, sore armpits. Now, you know - I can handle sore biceps, triceps, abs, legs...you know there will be visible results there eventually and you expect those muscles to feel a burn from time to time. However, I have yet to see flab on anyone's armpits - let alone my own. Then again, I've never really looked - who cares what the armpits look like on anyone - as long as they've used deodorant and don't smell, I could care less about armpits. That said, this kicked up workout has left me with armpit pain anytime I raise my arms - which did convince me today was not the day to wash windows. The worst part was putting on a dress for a meeting I had to go to this morning - the contortions I usually have to go through to zip the thing in the back since I was home alone had me gritting my teeth. I gave serious thought to cutting the blasted thing off when I got home to avoid reaching for the zipper. I did go through the contortions and got the thing off....and decided that I needed to raid the Hershey Kiss stash as medication for my pain and suffering. Of course, I'm sure if Bri finds out about that, she'll kick the workout up another notch to work off the calories...Do I really have to go back on Friday? Yeah, I do....otherwise she'll hunt me - the captive client - down!