My fitness trainer abruptly left the gym and I think the city about ten days ago. I am worried about him. But enough about him, let’s turn it back to me, because I need Michelle Obama arms for my wedding.
He texted me and suggested one of the other trainers whom I will call FTOB (fitness trainer of blogger). FTOB is very, how shall we say, vivacious. She spontaneously lifts people off the floor when she is happy. She likes to take dance breaks, which makes me think of the Ellen DeGeneres’s show (the episode I saw) during which she danced with her guests.
Still, the clock was ticking and I have an unforgiving dress. I called FTOB and scheduled an appointment. She is high energy and very effective. But while I was learning from FTOB, I had to teach her two things: (i) I don’t have a booty and (ii) I don’t have ta-tas. As to the first, I have a tushie, behind, derriere, butt or any number of variations of those words. As to the second, I have breasts, a chest or, if necessary, boobs.
No-no-no to ta-tas.
FTOB was awesome about this. The second session contained no references to the “b” or the “t” words. Strong work, FTOB.
FTOB has a FauxHawk (modified Mohawk, where the the sides aren’t shaved, just very short). In this last session, her hair was slicked back and it looked like it was all one length. “I love your hair!!” I exclaimed, almost matching her general exuberance. “You think so? It got wet and I gelled it back. I am getting it cut soon.” Ahhh, it was only a temporary NoHawk.
So, in a moment that can best be described as my mother inhabiting my body, I blurted out, “You know, I asked [my old trainer] once to introduce us, because I wanted to say to you, ‘You have such a lovely face, why do you have your hair cut that way?’”
“A good haircut can make all the difference,” I said.
I think we were both shocked at the exchange and I was a little weirded out having had a Freaky Friday moment with my mother in my body. And FTOB is so good natured that she took it in the spirit in which it was meant — concern.
It turns out she has a girlfriend who likes her hair. “Well, then, don’t listen to me; listen to her. But if you are single again, listen to me.”
Oh, Mom, next time, give me some warning, ok?