On Personal Trainers

 A silly little poem about trying to get fit:

Personal Trainer 

I’m getting to an age where I 

should focus on my health,

and so, I booked an expert who would help me push myself.

She didn’t speak much English

but she led by precedent,

and she had a score on Yelp reviews of two-hundred percent!

I’d never met a trainer 

quite so flexible and bendy;

she knew her way ‘round Yoga and Pilates – very trendy!  

Her emphasis on stretching was

a skill I mastered fast:

she taught me how to curl up so my nose was by my arse.

She had to change the timing 

and adapt to fit my body.

I told her I had two legs and she stared at me quite oddly…

And she was keen on running

through the fields, not wearing shoes.

I kept my Puma Kicks laced up, but still, my feet were bruised.

She often used small rodents

as a way to set the pace.

A run can be enhanced, she thought, if it involves a chase. 

And, speaking of nutrition, 

she endorsed a raw food diet:

poultry, game and entrails. High in protein; I should try it! 

But, if I couldn’t stomach that,

she had a back-up plan:

all meaty chunks in gravy, served in pouches or from cans.

She really favoured sleeping,

so she did it all day long:

if I wasn’t getting eighteen-hours, then I had done it wrong. 

She’d dose off in the living room,

the garden, or my shed.

“A whole new way of fitness!” That was what the advert said. 

She had a lot of schooling

in the ways of the masseuse;

the rhythm of her padded paws would knead my muscles loose.  

But I drew the line at skincare,

as her teachings were repugnant:

she utilised her own spit! She thought water was redundant!

And so, I sacked my trainer;

We just weren’t compatible. 

She wasn’t all that personable, and I was too un-catable.

Image via Unsplash.com