I came home from the gym to the aroma of cinnamon raisin bagels.
“How did your training session go?” asked Henri, smearing cream cheese on his totally wonderful smelling bagel that I can’t eat.
“Awful, just awful. Daniel was upset that I drank a beer. ONE beer. Can you believe it?” I asked complete with righteous indignation.
Henri laughed. “I like this guy. He’s the only trainer who ever held you accountable,” he said pouring a third teaspoon of sugar into his coffee.
I can’t have coffee. I can’t have sugar.
“Oh, shut up, Henri,” I muttered leaving the kitchen to avoid the smell of food I couldn’t eat. Henri followed me into our bedroom.
“Why am I even doing this stupid competition? I’m not going to win it. I could eat more things when I was pregnant. Stupid bikini competition,” I muttered pulling off my sweaty t-shirt and throwing it on the counter.
“Lisa, I’m so proud of you. In four weeks you dropped five dress sizes. That’s insane. You’re wearing clothes you haven’t fit into in years. Whatever he’s having you do is working, right?”
“Right,” I mumbled, turning on the shower. Henri tapped my shoulder and I faced him.
“OK, so you had a tough morning. He held you accountable. That’s good; it means he really wants you to met your own goals and isn’t just in it to sell you more sessions. He’s a good trainer.”
So much for spousal sympathy. I guess I’ll just have to stick to the damn diet.
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