Your "reward"

On Sunday, I managed to drag it off of the couch and make it down to the gym (pauses, flushes with pride, pats self on back, resumes typing).

There's a little running track upstairs that overlooks the pool and circles around a little aerobics area.

While I was on the track (I would say that I was running, but we both know that would be a lie. I was speed walking; running's bad for the joints anyway, right?), there was a class going on. It looked medieval. There were step stools; weights; some sort of poles; reeeeeeally bad music; and--worst of all--a peppy, perky, skinny little sadist leading the bunch.

With every lap, I saw a new method of torture. Flushed faces. Looks of desperation. The smell of fear (or maybe that's just the sweat that they kept having to mop up from the floor).

Toward the end of my 40-minute trot, I heard one of the girls in the back of the class screech Ouch! This sucks! I wanted to hug her (but she was all sweaty. And she was a stranger).

And then the perky sadist said THIS: Of course, you're going to feel a little pain. But that's your reward!

WHUCK?

Pain is a byproduct of exercise, not the reward. WTF is wrong with her?

Pain is a reward. Humph! Screw that. My reward was the heaping bowlful of mac 'n cheese I wolfed down when I got home.