I filled out the questionnaire no problems at all. My online personal trainer would read the info, my stats and the like, sort through the mess of height and weight, realize I’m too fat and figure out what my body type is, and get back to me with a program that would help transform me, help get me back into shape. Of course this all seemed very strange to me, getting physical advice on my body from someone I’d never met and probably would never meet. Some wise and in shape stranger, soon to become known to me as my online physical trainer, would be figuring out my genetic make-up from some questionnaire, maybe this online physical trainer could figure out my addiction to Cheeto’s and Pizza and bacon cheeseburgers and chicken wings and those stupid blooming onion things you can only find at Outback, then again maybe not. A friend of mine had found this service that offered these online physical trainers, and I looked into it, because my friend in the last six months had lost more than twenty pounds, looked and felt great, and walked through the office with an obvious swagger provided by the self confidence afforded by his new athletic build. This online physical trainer worked wonders with him, so perhaps he could for my pear shaped mass.

I waited and decided to get something good to eat because soon enough, once my online personal trainer got back to me with this program genetically designed for me, I wouldn’t be able to eat awesome food like cheese steaks and fried mushrooms and cupcakes and ice cream. Oooooooooooooooh – what was I going to do without ice cream? Wow, I hadn’t even thought about that. That was going to be a bitter pill to swallow. I’d better be getting some ice cream in fast. I called and ordered a pizza and a sub and some French fries with brown gravy and told the place to hurry up before that stupid online personal trainer sent this superman program up and I wouldn’t be able to get to my ice cream before I had to start subsisting off of tofu and turkey burgers and – Bleck – yogurt. Disgusting. Who did this physical trainer think he was, online or not. He doesn’t know me from Adam. HAH! He’s never even seen me and he’s already pressuring me into skipping a meal to get to the ice cream. Stupid trainer. I began to pace, waiting out the race of my pizza and the dreaded “You’ve got mail” voice that would signify the end of all enjoyment in the form of a workout program delivered by that Nazi fascist training despot, my as yet unnamed online personal trainer. This guy was getting under my skin. Thankfully the doorbell rang and I took the food and over tipped the delivery guy just to get rid of him before it was too late. I ripped into the heavenly blank cardboard cartons with reckless abandon, and soon enough had choked down a few pieces of pizza and my sub. I was wearing brown gravy like it was an aftershave and choking down Rocky Road as if my life depended on it when I heard the “You’ve got mail” ringing from my PC. I eyed the computer warily like a boxer might spy an opponent. Who did this personal trainer think he was anyway? He didn’t know me. He didn’t know my habits. He didn’t know what I was about or what I was capable of or my habits or anything at all about me. How was he going to get me in to shape when he didn’t even know who I was. I took my ice cream to the computer and opened the e-mail, which was in fact from my new online physical trainer. I was going to read what he had to say and give him a piece of my mind.

The e-mail read: Put down the ice cream and let’s get to work.