You May Call Me, "Coach"

Mrs. Greyhound and I have been getting after it. Hot and sweaty, groaning, even little screams. She's even complaining that she's having trouble walking right. 'Cause that's how I roll.

I mean personal training of course. What did you think I was talking about? Perverts.

Mrs. Greyhound has been following a "Couch to 5K" running program with the goal that all of us will do a Turkey Trot around Thanksgiving time. I am so proud. This has me totally stoaked and I am so looking forward to running it with her, stride by stride. But in the true Greyhound spirit, she's been taking it up a level. On days when she doesn't have running to do, she's been walking and doing strength training.

She's had a routine developed by Maria Gratia, but frankly, Mrs. Greyhound (like me) isn't a big fan of strength training. It can be boring if you haven't got a trainer to work with, and Maria Gratia is far too busy and too far away to work with Mrs. Greyhound three times a week.

So Mrs. Greyhound asked me.

***Insert Evil Laughter Here****

After her last two walking sessions, I conducted (at her request) a 30 minute circuit of core and strength training with some dumbells, medicine balls, Swiss ball, and body weight exercises. I think she complains more with me than she does with Maria Gratia; but then, I probably take less guff than Maria Gratia.

But she won't call me, "coach," and there's probably no double entendre when Maria Gratia tells her to "go down" on her lunges.

We've done it twice.

Exercised that is.

The rest is none of your business, but I will say that I'm not upset that my wife is sleeping with her personal trainer.