Written by IainB
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Wednesday, 11 April 2012

image for My week as a woman - day four My Personal Trainer. I think that was a muscle in his pants.

I had somehow managed to almost strangle myself during the night, and I woke up as tired as when I went to sleep. The nightie was described as sexy. I now appreciate that the moniker was attached by somebody who had never worn it. Red lace may leave little to the imagination, but it should not, under any circumstances be worn by anyone with skin. Lace may be the sexiest material on the planet, but it is very, very itchy.

My wife was still asleep when I woke up. I toyed with the idea of slipping quietly out of bed without waking her, not in case she demanded sex - although this was a consideration - but rather to get some breakfast. The aches that had taken up permanent residence in every muscle were nothing compared to the hunger for food. As it was, my wife woke up as I unkinked my legs enough to get out of bed. I declared enough was enough, but only after I had gone through with another case of demanded sex. I got cramp all the way up from my left ankle to right shoulder.

"You're half way," she told me as I threw in the towel.

"I get it," I told her. "No more."

"You don't get it," she told me. "There's a couple more things you need to discover."

I was quite surprised to discover that I still had some hair that needed removing. Either it was growing really fast, or while I slept, my wife was gluing it on. I managed to cut the back of my calf. With a safety razor. Fortunately, hair doesn't grow on elbows; I could not envisage how a razor could cope with the folds of skin without leaving me permanently disfigured. I would never tell my wife, but my skin felt quite nice. For just over a nanosecond, I considered continuing the moisturising after the week was up.

After breakfast, where I was surprisingly allowed to eat more than a spoonful of low-fat breakfast cereal, I was told what the day's lesson in pain would be. My wife had got me a day pass at her gym. I figured that this meant I wouldn't have to jab myself in the eye with a mascara stick. I was wrong. Instead, I was told, make-up had to be applied, removed before exercising, and then reapplied. Who comes up with these rules? I was presented with a neon pink leotard that didn't look big enough for a stunted dwarf, leggings and a sports bra. I would be allowed to wear my own shoes! This was only because my wife had been unable to find training shoes in my size. She had, however, replaced the laces with pink chunky ones.

For those that don't know, sports bras have been designed with the sole intention of stopping any chest movement. This includes breathing.

We drove to the gym. By now I had worked out how to bend my ankle fifteen degrees beyond the usual tolerance. I had never been to my wife's gym. As far as I could tell, it being a weekday, the main occupants of the gym were women. The few men who were present were very male. Their muscles had muscles, and those muscles had their own individual training regime. One of these men was my wife's personal trainer. He had to use gloss paint on his teeth, there was no other way of getting them that white.

My wife told him what was happening while he watched his own muscles rippling in a mirror. Fortunately, I don't think he realised I wasn't a woman. However, I was to receive my wife's standard training regime for the next two hours. The changing rooms were interesting, but not empty. There were two men in there and they definitely noticed me. As they stopped talking.

"Did you lose a bet?" one of them asked.

"Yes," I replied. "With my wife."

"You poor sod," the other one said. "Rather you than me. My wife just made lentil dishes for a week."

If it had been my wife's intention for me to be embarrassed in the changing rooms, then a small victory was mine. I put on the leotard. This was harder than I had thought. There were simultaneously too many and not enough holes for limbs. My small victory evaporated when I heard one of the men stifle a laugh. I rolled the Spanish Inquisition designed item of clothing from my legs upwards, dislocated both shoulders and I was ready. At this point, I realised that the leggings should have been put on first.

My wife gave me a small wave from the café area, while eating a Danish. I glared back.

I still don't think that the personal trainer had any idea I was male. He was more interested in making sure my waist was narrowed, hopefully by the end of the day as far as he was concerned. I do not believe a Sports Science degree course contains any modules that require any degree of sentience. Apart from taking me through each of the devices in the gym in turn, he barely spoke to me, other than to tell me that my arse was too flat and my shoulders too wide. After losing at least five kilos in weight through water loss (but at least my skin was hydrated), I decided that gym equipment was developed from the tools normally used to make witches confess.

After about an hour, I could take no more, I really needed to pee. The Witchfinder General graciously allowed me a short break. I will never complain about the length of time my wife spends in the bathroom again. Ever. It takes a man approximately thirty seconds to go to the loo. It took me five minutes just to get the leotard down. Do women not pee? I was basically naked by the time I got to empty my bladder. No wonder there are always queues outside women's loos. They're inside getting undressed! My personal demon had spent the time watching how his chest bounced in a mirror and possibly hadn't noticed how long I had been gone. He noticed I had returned, and despite no longer being able to feel my legs, he pushed me for a further hour.

I hadn't realised until I saw her returning, that my wife had not stayed to witness my demise. I should have known she was up to no good. She was there to see me stagger from the gym equipment to get a shower. Blissfully, I had the male changing room to myself. I jabbed myself in the eye with the mascara brush. After emerging, and being sent back in to redo make-up, twice, we were allowed to go home. I longingly looked at the pastries for sale in the café. I had gone past hunger and was now in the stage of consuming my own internal organs.

"You'll have to drive," I told my wife. "My hips don't work anymore."

"I manage to drive back from the gym," she said. "I'm sure you'll manage."

It needed both hands to apply the handbrake at home, and I almost broke a nail. I had a moment of panic, but I got lucky.

There was no rest on getting in: I had to make dinner.

Over dinner, I got given the bad news by my wife, with a particularly sadistic smile, that my boss had rung. I was needed in the office. The third dress we had bought on day one was now draped over the back of the sofa. It needed ironing. As did an entire week's worth of laundry. The iron was hot, but nowhere near as hot as the needles between my shoulder blades.

I fell asleep trying to watch television, and got woken up to go to bed. I think my wife may have demanded sex again, however, while pretending to be asleep, I fell asleep.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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