Instruments of Torture

I've been very diligent about my workouts these days. Although the dog and I get out every morning like clockwork, the cold winds and bare puppy feet manage to keep our outings very short and not particularly cardio intensive (unless shivering counts) so off to the very blue collar, very non-beautiful people gym I go to. And once there, to pound away on the instruments of torture and try to reverse the ravages of (drum roll please) nonalcoholic steatohepatitis aka fatty liver. Yes, my liver is fat. Given how little I drink, it appears to be exercise and diet related. Or maybe medication related. But regardless of its origin it is cause for one portly physician after another to give me no end of grief about my middle aged. . . er. . .middle. . . and the need to reduce its size. Hence the gym outings and my rather obsessive postings about what I eat or don't eat. The Andover gym is more of a club with membership fees to match the leather chair and juice bar ambience. The place I go to - in a nearby not so posh town - looks like a warehouse with garish colors, row after row of machines facing row after row of television screens suspended from the ceiling as row after row of walkers, runners, bikers, lifters plug in and stare away. The unemployed construction workers, the little old duffs, and the over weight midlifers all seem to work out at the same time I do. Which is to say early in the morning. And then they all go get eggs and homefries before going about their days. I go get coffee, black thank you very much. No fat in that. Sorry liver.