I don't know why I called this Blood, Sweat & Tears because no tears are involved, and certainly no blood. It's the sweat. Lots of sweat is involved. I thought about titling it The Sweathog reminiscent of the cutesy students on Welcome Back Kotter. But since this missive is about moi, I found it offensive.

Aha. By the Sweat of Our Brows? Yeah, that would have been a good title. Too late.

Okay. Hold on to your scones and lattes. I belong to a gym and have a personal trainer. This is so unlike me, it sounds so fancy-pants, and I ain't. I have trouble spending money on myself. Perhaps some deep-seated worthiness issue. But I know this expenditure's worth. I'm becoming thick around the middle - have always been thick-headed, too, but long ago gave up trying to fix that.

Let me start at the beginning.

A few years back I joined one of those circuit training gyms. The facility will remain nameless. I have a vanity plate (Omigod, like totally...), which reads KARM AAH. I believe in consequences, hence the nameless circuit gym. The monthly fee was reasonable, the staff was professional and cheerful, and the other members were chatty and friendly. Yet, after two years of going round and round and round in the circuit circle, one day I took a dizzy glance and realized that though we were having a lot of fun, we all appeared as full-figured as the day we started. I decided the party was over.

So, I joined a new gym that has more machines and weights and gizmos than I'd ever seen before. Some of the machines even look a bit kinky. I was given a generous tutorial, but knew instantly I was in deep ca-ca. I unzipped the little hippy-dippy fabric money pouch I carry in my purse and impetuously determined that God made credit cards for this very reason - to engage the services of a personal trainer. I won't divulge the cost in case my husband should read this.

Now, I'm finally heading toward the point of this story. My trainer's name is Wasy, pronounced Wazy. His moniker comes from some long Polish name that no one could pronounce. He's 62-years-old, has had two hip replacements, and is a specimen of fitness. He doesn't look a day over 50 - honest, no creative license here. I adore Wasy, everyone adores Wasy. Even my husband does, because they've become golfing buddies. Many people simply call him The Was. When I recently asked Wasy for his first name he just smiled. I decided that his first name must be 'The' as in The Was. He laughed hard. Truth is we laugh a lot, which studies have proven is also essential to good health.

I tell ya, Disneyland might be marketed as the happiest place on earth, but I contest that Club Paradise in Fallbrook is. By the way, can you believe the gym's name? I've made a new friend I call Cindi Paradise. She calls me Reenie Paradise. We sound like hookers.

I try to get to Paradise six days each week. The place is always packed with smiles - must be all the endorphins. And like some quaint main street, everyone says *Hi* or at the very least, gives a friendly nod. I'm always happy when I'm there - and it shows. In addition to all the laughter, I'm also starting to reclaim my waist.

There's been no blood yet, but I must confess I've been close to tears when the credit card statement arrives. But it's worth every penny, and so am I.