What’s that you say? She hired a personal trainer to get her in shape for the wedding? Who would do such a thing?

R’s fiance. That’s who.

Because let’s be honest, McDonald’s and My Metabolism have been in cahoots to sabotage my big day ever since I got engaged.

So R and I hired personal trainer Satan Ann to help us get in shape.

(And let’s be honest, R doesn’t really need her. Case in point: the other night while I struggled through 30 God-forsaken minutes on the cardio machine, he breezed through lifting weights and then hopped on the treadmill all chipper-like.  Nice).

And we couldn’t just hire any trainer.  No sirreee.  Ashley had to find the person who trains female bodybuilders for competition.  Go big or go home, people.

So tomorrow we start our 2 hours with Ann.  I predict she’ll measure my percentage of body fat, I’ll cry, body slam her six times in my head, and then she’ll tell me to suck it up and start the cardio machine while she works up a “nutrition” plan that entails eating celery and dirt for the next 6 weeks.

The she’ll look @ R and tell him “you’re doing just fine.”

Stay tuned.