Just finished my second visit to the gym and I STILL don't look like Linda Hamilton in "Terminator II".

I am shocked and dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, eh.

Yep, this morning I was at Madame Babette's House o' Torture a.k.a. The Gym. I was the woman in the corner feeling her will to live dwindle with each stroke as she did her cardio cool down on the rowing machine.

This other woman was motoring along on the treadmill beside me. To break the boredom, I started up a conversation with her, went with the usual small talk stuff--been doing this gym thing long? Has it been worthwhile?

She looks me over, decides I'm not some sort of deranged serial killer type person, and tells me she's been at it for over four months now, three times a week.

"Well, it hasn't done anything for my body," she said, said she, "but I'm not screaming at my husband and my kids like I used to."

It's such a comfort to know you're exercising beside a ticking human time bomb, eh.

Alrightee then. Achey muscles, no promise of any quick physical transformation, ticking human time bombs AND I'm paying for this in American dollars, $1 U.S. equalling $5,432 Canadian, give or take a few cents.

Now I see why they don't have any sharp objects in a gym.

It thwarts those random, senseless urges you get to impale yourself and end the pain quickly.

You know, it just struck me I may have to set more realistic goals for this gym thing.

Maybe it will take six visits to get buff, eh.