When I started back working out at my gym a couple of weeks ago, I found out that my trainer Will had left while I was gone and a guy called Dave would be taking his place.

    Fine. I don't take to change very well at the best of times, and I really enjoyed Will, but I would deal with it.

    Last Wednesday was the first morning the new guy and I crossed paths. First off, let me say that he looks like a Marine drill sargeant, only less cuddly. Yes, that forbidding. I was intimidated.

    I started into my routine and it worked out that he was one machine behind me, teaching a gym newbie the ropes. He watched me, and as I finished each machine he would say to me, "You know, your form on that machine sucks."

    As I see it there were two basic ways to respond to this. One was the seasoned, mature response which would be, "Really? I guess I'd better make an appointment with you and you can help me correct my errors."

    The other would be the wildly immature response, which would be to say nothing at all while fuming inside, "Oh yeah? Oh YEAH? Who asked YOU, Mr. Poopy Head?"

    I have attained the august age of 50, so you might think that with that would come a certain maturity.

    You would be so wrong.

    I went for the wildly immature response.

    I fumed.

    For days.

    Well, common sense finally kicked in. For the last two weeks I have been in serious muscle pain even though I've cut back on the weights I'm throwing on each machine.

    If muscles could talk, mine would be screaming something about The Freaking Spanish Inquisition. Even stubborn me could see an injury on the horizon if I didn't do something.

    So I made an appointment and this morning Drill Sargeant Dave and I went through each and every machine.

    It was embarrassing. I hate to admit that I'm wrong, and it's especially painful to be corrected by someone young enough to be my son. But you know, after he changed how I use the machines, I went through my whole workout and it doesn't hurt nearly as much.

    There's probably a lesson there somewhere, but darned if I know what it is, eh.

    Speaking of embarrassing (this segue was done by a professional, please, please don't try this at home) have I mentioned the pepper?

    Well, the deal is that Paul and I have never had much money so I'm a very um, er, ah careful shopper. Yeah, that's the word, careful. (I find the word "cheap" is so perjorative, don't you?).

    I try to buy all the stuff we use constantly such as laundry soap or toothpaste on sale. I always compare prices on sizes when I'm stocking up, because sometimes the bigger package is the much better deal.

    So last year about this time we ran out of pepper. I spent a fair bit of time in the store looking at the various sizes of pepper containers and I found out that for a mere $1 more I could buy The Death Star of Pepper, a container that holds approximately twice as much pepper as the next size down pepper bottle.

    I know, you're tingling all over just thinking about that kind of savings, too, aren't you?

    So of course Because It Is A Bargain, I brought home the extra-jumbo-only-$1-more container of pepper, which holds More Pepper Than We Will Ever Use In Our Lives.

    And every time the spousal unit opens up the door to the cupboard which contains the extra-jumbo-only-$1-more container of pepper he cracks up and gives me the gears about my um, er, ah thriftiness.

    I was reminded of that today because after I got home from the gym I had to fill the pepper shaker and as you can see, I've still haven't made an appreciable dent in its peppery goodness. Yes, I have many, many years of pepper based jokes ahead of me.

    There's probably a lesson there, too, somewhere, but darned if I know what it is either, eh.