I’m the mayor of the east side Gold’s Gym on foursquare.

If you know me, and the way I loathe getting into an exercise routine, you know this is quite a feat. See, between years 5 and 23, I was a dancer. When you’re a dancer, you don’t think about how many calories you’re burning when you’re pirouetting and arabesque-ing….it just works. I started dancing less and drinking more, and well, you do the math. Call it Ruebenesque all you want; I got ROUND.

I picked the Gold’s Gym not only because it was affordable, but because I pass it on my way to and from work. I can’t go home without driving by that big shiny sign and feeling guilty about it (eight years of Catholic schooling ftw!) Like any gym, they have you meet with a member of the staff whose goal is to convince you to sign up for personal training sessions. No way in hell, I thought, determined to stand my ground. I CAN DO THIS MYSELF. (Except for the fact that I hadn’t, four gym memberships later.) I met with this trainer who gave me a fitness test and made me run drills.

And I almost puked.

I ALMOST PUKED. You know those people you see on Celebrity Fit Club, and they barf after running for like three minutes, and you exclaim, “Ha! What a sad, sorry state to be in!” NO. A sad, sorry state is spitting into your own reflection in the toilet of the eastside Gold’s Gym. The membership was so cheap, I started to think tacking on a few PT sessions wasn’t such a bad idea to jump start my routine. After some haggling (turns out I learned a thing or two about negotiating from my media buying days after all), I was set up with a personal trainer three times a month.

Tyrone.

That’s his name. Tyrone is a black, cut, MMA fighter with a heart of gold. And there’s no way to say this without sexual innuendo, but: When Tyrone says he’s going to go easy on me, it will be a harder workout than I’d ever dream of giving myself. And if he says, “We’re going to have fun today,” it means I won’t be able to walk for three days. (Yes, I’ve made this joke before.) After the first few sessions, I realized that not only was I getting a great workout, but I was basically paying someone to cat-call me for thirty minutes while I lifted heavy things.  (That sounded less sad in my head.)

But for the past couple sessions, things have been getting…weird. Tyrone keeps talking about how it’s time I started dating black dudes. And I’m running out of funny things to say in response to that. Or how about this gem of an awkward conversation:

WHILST TRICEP-DIPPING:

Him: I’m scoutin’ for a white girl. I’ve never been with a white girl.

Me: No?

Him: Nope.

Me, Inner Monologue: DOO DOOT DOOT DOOO I’M JUST GOING TO CONTINUE WORKING ON MAH TRICEPS

Him: . . . .You ever been with a black dude?

Me: …Nope.

[HUGE CRAZY PREGNANT PAUSE]

Me: . . .

Me: . . . .Abs?

Him: Alright.

I keep telling Tyrone to help me sculpt a body so that dudes will want to have sex with me*, but is it possible that TYRONE wants to have sex with me**? TWIST.

In the meantime, whenever I’m feeling a little puffy or sluggish, I sing to myself, “I think you need to caaaallll Tyrooone, CALL ‘im!”

From one of my favorite songs, natch:

* I’m sorry, family members that read this.

** Obviously, our relationship is strictly professional, but c’mon, you don’t get told every day, “You could be my first white girl.” (Or do you? Do you? Let me know.)