Sore and exhausted

Tonight I completed the eighth out of 20 sessions with a personal trainer I go to at 24 Hour Fitness. By "completed," I mean I can still walk. The evil monster known as Mark led me through an hour and a half's worth of exercises that were so challenging that my T-shirt was soaked from shoulders to waist. I so wish I were one of those women who glow rather than sweat, but it's never been the case. Sweat actually drips off me when I work out, and my hair sticks to my head like moss on a stone. Oh, so alluring. Anyway, right now I'm so tired I can barely write. And my muscles are protesting in that special way that tells me tomorrow I'm going to be eating aspirin as though it were candy corn. The good part in all this is that I'm getting fit. Another benefit is that I'm sleeping regularly and deeply. The bad part is that my ass is still the size of a bus. I remember a time when the results of exercise didn't take quite this long to show up. Grumble grumble bitch bitch grouse and growl.