diary
Friday, August 24th, 2007I 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.