Saying, “I work with a personal trainer,” is one of those phrases that should give strangers license to punch you in the body part of their choice. It’s such a douchebag comment that it makes me want to write a letter to the fucking communists excoriating my own bourgeoisie excess. But the truth is that when I first started working with my trainer two, maybe three years back, it was because I was losing a fight with chronic pain and physical discomfort and I was finally desperate enough to work out about it.

The first few months were sincerely the worst. I have hazy memories of my ex-Olympian trainer — when I told him I needed to adjust my schedule earlier this year because I was going on a disassociation vacation in Japan alone, he said, “Oh, I’ve only been to Nagano,” what the fuck — explaining to me what a wall-sit was and me thinking, “This jock is trying to kill me,” White Lotus style. This time also introduced me to things like reverse lunges (go fuck yourself) and the assault bike (go fuck yourself with a rusty chainsaw) and that I was still capable of getting so overclocked exercising that I would need to go execute on a puke and rally. In the years since, Trainer Mike has commented fondly that the time I had to tap out so I could go hurl in his gym bathroom and then came back out and was like, “what are you talking about of course we’re finishing the workout,” was very telling about my personality. I believe that it is better for me not to be CC’d on whatever’s being communicated.

I want to say that in the years since, we’ve transitioned away from things that are terrible to things that are empowering and fun, but that’s not fully accurate. Only Been To Nagano Mike still makes me ride the assault bike for multiple calories like a monster, but he is also extremely down to clown when I say things like, “Do you think I could do a one-rep max of 200 lbs on the backsquat.” Today, I benched 125 lbs. Last week, I did 200 lbs on the trap bar, and with hallucinatory pride, I texted my mom that if she ever killed anybody not to worry because I could easily move the body now.

Lifting really heavy things is so fun. It’s so fun. I’m actively pissed nobody ever told me how fun it was when I was dragging my corpse to the gym only ever very occasionally to fight for my life on the elliptical or camel honk my way through a very bad jog on the treadmill. All those wasted years I could have been getting so strong I could donkey kick a man’s head off of his neck. I recently expressed this sentiment and then immediately asked Trainer Mike about MMA gyms; unlike other boring people in my life, he did not question my hunger for violence and instead suggested some dude he trains for fights.

“I just want to become like, really dangerous,” I told him.

“You’re already kind of scaring me,” he said.

Just you wait and see, buddy. On my way out of the gym today one of your other clients told me he teaches at a pole dancing gym.