Crying At The Discotheque

“I just don’t understand why I’m still so fat,” I say to Katerina. We’re by the TRX machine: it has handles hanging on ropes from a horizontal bar.
“You’re not,” she says. “You look great.”
“I’ve put on a stone since starting the cancer treatment,” I say. “And I’ve been doing personal training twice a week for six months now and I haven’t lost any weight.”
“For one thing: you keep having surgery and taking time out,” she says. “Your body needs to recover from that. And we’ve been doing a lot of work on your legs, and they’ve got big heavy muscles and…Tanya, please don’t cry.”
I’m sitting in a heap on the floor, crying into my towel.
“You’ve had so many horrible treatments, your body needs to recover,” she says.
“Will you help me with my diet in January?” I say, through my tears. “I suppose I just assumed that I would’ve lost a bit of weight after all this training. This is the heaviest I’ve been for nine years.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “Look: I’m sure some of it is muscle. There’s that chap you like over there.”
“Where?” I say.
She points towards the running machines and there’s the Israeli chap from the other day. He’s gorgeous: thick shaggy dirty blond hair, tanned, white t-shirt.
“I’d better get on with something,” I say, “can’t waste the whole session crying.”
“Good girl,” Katerina says. “Take those handles, lean back, and then pull yourself up. Fifteen of them.”
Taking the handles, I lean back…

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