I have been attending the gym for nearly ten months, religiously, three times a week for an hour or more per session.

A month ago, I decided to up my routine and start going four times a week, mostly to keep up with my ridiculous binge drinking and food gorging habits.

My cardio has improved significantly…I started out at 5.2 m/h and I’m up to 5.7 m/h, although the treadmills at the stupid gym only allow me to run for 25 minutes at a time (in actuality, any longer and I would collapse).

So yesterday I had a fitness assessment with one of the trainers there. I was thinking DAMN, I’m so fit and fine, I’m gonna NAIL THIS SHIT.

We discussed my alcohol and food consumption.

Her: “Twelve drinks per weekend?!!”

More like per NIGHT.

Anyway, we did some standard BMI test, that sorta thing, plus cardio. And then she takes me to the trainers’ room, where we do five minute strength-training drills.

And holy shit, I actually can’t move today.

When it’s all over, she sits down with me in a total serious, melancholy demeanour, a devious rictus spread across her face.

“You did 5 push-ups. The average is 25,” she says.

Wtf.

“You held the plank for one minute. The average is two minutes.”

FOR NINJAS???!!!

And so on, and so forth, and you do not need to know the further details of my humiliating fitness shame. TEN MONTHS and I can only do FIVE PUSH-UPS?! I WORK OUT FOR LIKE, 430438043 HOURS A WEEK.

Needless to say, I feel like a piece of dog crap rolled up in a plastic bag and kicked a few times with a steel-toed boot. And so it is my mission to become super fit. I mean, super hot fit. I want to be able to pin my men, not crush them.