It's now been like nine months since I first started going to the gym trainer I wrote about a while back, which technically means I could have become a mother by now. A hot mom who wears yoga pants to Target and takes annual photos with her children in front of dilapidated barn fences.

You'd think by now I'd have the body of Adonis and the discipline of someone willing to google Greek mythology to come up with another example. But instead the only thing that's really happened is I complain more than I used to when my alarm goes off at illegal o'clock for these gym sessions.

I know I complain more than I used to because recently Skylar said "you complain more than you used to" and when I made him cite his sources on this he referred to five seconds before this exchange when my alarm sounded and I yelled "I'm a good and cute person who doesn't deserve this."

Ok, the truth is, I have seen some physical improvement as a result of these gym sessions. For example, when I started going, the trainer asked me to do this stretch where I was supposed to reach down and touch my toes and that's when I discovered that I apparently could no longer bend at the waist. When I tried this I immediately got permanent vertigo and the skin at my lower back ripped in two like a seam and the Grand High Witch popped out of me and ate a child named Bruno.

Well, you'll be thrilled to hear that I can now bend at my waist and reach nearly to my feet. I don't know why this is a good thing but the trainer seems to think it's worth celebrating and when I do something anyone thinks is worth celebrating I don't question the reaction because I love being celebrated. When I first met Skylar 9 years ago he profusely complimented me for changing lanes smoothly on a highway and I'm pretty sure I married him for that reason alone.

Skylar has helped me with the flexibility thing. I told him recently when I was in law school I took a real class that gave me real credit and a real grade and that class was called "Beginning Flexibility."

I swear to the prophet Tim Riggins all we did for the class was meet twice a week and stretch with a partner for 40 minutes and then meditate for 10. My partner was a cute guy I didn't know but got randomly assigned. I pretended we were married (he did not know this) and we had signed up for this class to save our marriage. I had a whole backstory and everything. Basically he was having an emotional affair with his chief of staff (I decided my husband was the mayor) and I had given him an ultimatum. (I was watching a lot of The Good Wife at the time.)

Thanks to Beginning Flexibility, by the end of the semester I could do the sit and reach with both hands and wrap them over the top of my feet all the way down to my heels. This benefited my life in no way I could measure besides serving as an underwhelming party trick I did without invitation or commendation on many occasions.

Neverthenotwithstanding, Skylar thought this sounded cool and so he has started forcing us to do these exercises together several times a week despite my warning that this did not save my last marriage.

Basically what this all means is I'm essentially doing homework for my gym sessions, which makes me a star student. But one who does not like getting up at illegal o'clock to exercise when there are plenty of other hours during the day to choose from. Like noon. Or other hours (I can't think of any right now).

I mentioned previously that our training sessions consist of me and two other Loud Gays™, plus our very young trainer who is so straight he could commit a hate crime just by looking at us the wrong way. We love him because he thinks we're funny and because he says stuff to us like "nice form" and "really good set," which are compliments we don't substantively care about but which we like anyway simply because they're compliments.

Side note, he also does this thing where he'll have us run through this nonsensical series of tasks, like "walk this weight over to that wall and then hop back on one foot and then do a cartwheel while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance" and he'll time us and when we finish he'll be all like, "wow. Great job. You did that in four minutes and nine seconds." And we don't have the heart to tell him this time means nothing to us. It's not like we can google it to find out the national average to compare. So instead we just fist bump him so hard there are no longer any gay penguins.

Anyway, this morning we were all talking about weekend plans when suddenly Will, one of the Gays, announced, "I'm going to a gala where we have to wear caftans á la Mrs. Roper from Three's Company." I looked over just in time to see our dumbfounded trainer mumble, "I didn't understand a word of that sentence."

I have spent the rest of the day now thinking about what that sentence would sound like if you didn't know what most of those things were. Basically he heard what I hear when people start talking about The World Cup or health insurance.

I heard Will give a concise simple summary of a fun weekend extravaganza.

Our trainer heard, "I'm going to a xzxzjxk where we have to wear zxcxcx xc cxczx xcxcxcxc from vjisijs flkjlieienie." It might has well have been the teachers in Charlie Brown or my dogs when they see a squirrel.

When we finished the workout, the trainer fist bumped a congratulations into our arms. "You're the only person I do this with," Will told him, like he was swearing a fidelity oath.

Just before we left I did a quick stretch, reaching down to try to touch my toes, noticing I'm getting ever so closer. As I strained to push myself an extra inch I thought about my first husband and wondered, for just a moment, if he's attended any caftan parties since I last saw him.

~It Just Gets Stranger