I have a new personal trainer. His name’s Bruno. He’s late twenties, South African Italian, and, like the best of PT’s, not really my type.
Well, I say ‘like the best of.’ It’s not like I’ve had years of experience. But, for me, the perfect PT needs to have things I can aspire to (in Bruno’s case, the pecs of a twenty-two year old
Jordan Katie Price and the Arms of a twenty-two year old Governator Arnold Alois Schwarzenegger), without, neccessarily, being something I desire (He’s a bit too, well, squat, for my fantasies tastes). I need to want to do the crunches and planks without being entirely focussed on how I can possibly arrange it so I get to jump his bones.
But, as part of our project, Bruno has me keeping a food diary.
“You must write down every single thing that passes your lips,” he says in a soft, but still erotically gutteral South Efrikan Eksent.
“Yiss. Iverything. What do you normally eat for brickfest?”
And thus begins a discussion of my dietary habits, which he seems to find, overall, acceptable.
“I really only have one downfall,” I say. “The booze.”
“Ah. How much do you drink?”
“Well, Monday through Thursday, usually nothing. Thursday, one or two. Friday, maybe four pints of lager. Saturday, not much. Sunday, maybe a bottle of wine, whilst preparing / eating lunch.”
“Thet’s foine. No problem there. Beer’s not great, though. High claories. I tend to have Vodka Slimline. Mind you, I have triples, and I tend to get through two of those in the time it takes my mates to drink a pint, so it evens out. You drink at night?”
“Only on the Friday, usually.”
“Good. Me, I can’t sleep if I haven’t had a couple of triple scotch’s. To much buzzing otherwise.”
And right about then, I relaised that, perhaps, a functioning alcoholic might be a good role model as I work on the pecs and biceps.
Still, the food diary: I’m wondering whether we might have benefitted from The food diary of Anne Frank (”Tues. Dinner: Three Matzos, a slice of Gouda and a glass of Shabat Wine.” . The food diary of Samuel Pepys (”Wed Bkfst: Roast Guinea Fowl, turnip in its own juices, and the doughy white baps of Blanche the Kitchen Wench. Think I have the clap, but will try to get some oranges for tea.)
But then, asÂ Tallulah Bankhead once said: “Only good girls keep diaries; bad girls don’t have the time. ”
I’m having to make the time 8(