making enemies, with a cherry on top

Oh, the gym....land of opportunity, land of pain.

Now that I'm a bona fide gym-goer, I've been assigned a regular personal trainer (sadly, I bid adieu to Rico/Fox, as he has other potential suckers to lure into this den of sweat and beefcakes).

The name of my new personal trainer, you ask?

Parfait.

It is pronounced like you think it is pronounced.

I approached the training desk for my first session with Parfait, and asked for her as such. The swarthy dude at the desk laughed and said, "Hey, Pudding, your 5:30 is here."

Parfait/Pudding turned out to be a big, bald, burly, brusque, beefy black man.

My internal monologue raced, as it tends to do in these types of situations:

Ha hahaha FUCKIN HA that man's name is Parfait!

Do I have to call him that?

No, no, no. His name CAN'T be Parfait. That guy is obviously joking. This man looks like an American Gladiator with a steady stream of adrenaline flooding his bloodstream and an appetite for big slabs of protein. His name isn't really Parfait. They are fucking with me.

Pudding/Parfait: [In indecipherable Germanic/French accent] You are Shawn?

Shawn: Té - Shawnté

P/P: Okay [mumbles something similar to my name] have a seat. We talk about how you eat. Do you eat good? Tell me what you eat.

Té: [Dying to say, "Parfaits," but my angel side told my asshole side to shut up] You know, I eat pretty good. Healthy-like. Um, you know, vegetables and fruit and granola and stuff. Crackers. Pasta.

P/P: [Face blanching when I mention Crackers, Pasta.] No, no [again with the mumble], that is why you are tired and want to lose weight-

Té: [Imagine me, but indignant] - Hang on, I don't want to lose weight. I just want to be....[thinking of what Rico/Fox said the last time]...deeeelicious. For the beach.

This is about when Parfait (Ha! Hahahahaha! HA!) and I walk towards the free weights and I suddenly can't control my inner monologue anymore; dear god, it just vomits out:

"Your name isn't really Parfait, is it?"

He stops. Looks at me. I suddenly wished I was beached on my couch instead of cowering in the shadow of Parfait's steroidally ripped physique.

He says, "YES, IT IS," and then proceeds to work me out so hard I grunt "FUCK" no less than 20 times in a 30 minute span.

It is 4 days later and even my armpits still hurt.