Look at this face.
It's the face of an angel, is it not?
Happy, kind, warm, welcoming...
pain-inflicting, sweat-inducing, nightmare-causing...
This is the face of Zac, my personal trainer. He doesn't LOOK like a felon, does he? (Yes, I checked, and in the state of Utah, attempted murder is a felony, and every week he tries to kill me). Actually, I guess you'd say he's more like a paid assassin--and *I* am the one writing the check!
Every Friday morning, when I walk into Zac's house of horror...er...place of business, I look like this (ok, maybe not EXACTLY like this, but something close to it):
I look fresh, clean, polished, like someone with a pulse and a hygiene regimen.
This is what I look like just sixty tiny minutes later, when Zac (a.k.a. the Grim Reaper) is done with me:
All kidding aside, and in Zac's defense, it really is more of a love/hate relationship. It's painful and it's hard work and I smell like a locker room when it's all over, but the benefits are slowly but surely showing themselves. I'm down 11 lbs since Zac's abuse started. I'll take that.
I guess sometimes tough love really is the best kinda lovin'.