An open letter to my perky gym instructor Pam
This morning as I struggled to get out of bed because my legs, arms, stomach, butt, and most everything else except my face felt like I was slogging through a painful and stiff quicksand, I admit that I cursed you, as nice of a woman as you are. Why don't you consider changing the name of your Tuesday/Thursday gym class to "Nazi Death-Squat Torture with Pam"? Or maybe "How Many Reps Can You Do, You Sniveling Baby? How About Eight More?"
Both have a nice ring to them, and I think that would be a more accurate descrption of what occurs within those bemirrored walls on floors of shiny wood and padded colorful mats that smell like sweat. You sadist.
The one cheating on the overhead presses when you weren't looking