I made the horrific mistake of getting my boyfriend a personal trainer for his birthday this year. What I did realize was it would make him stronger, healthier and (most importantly) able to lift me into totally delicious sex positions without throwing his back out. What I didn’t realize was it would turn him into a Bob Greene Nazi who suddenly poo-pooed my theory that balancing two cosmopolitans while dancing wildly on Saturday night counts as sufficient weight and cardio training.

So here I was, awake at the ungodly hour of 9AM on Sunday morning, expected to go work out with him. The problem was I had come down with a nasty case of the ONLY-REASON-I-DRAG-MY-SORRY-ASS-TO-THE-GYM-IS-SO-I-CAN-HAVE-A-SECRET-ORGASM-ON-THE-STATIONARY-BIKE disease. Symptoms of the disease are as follows:

1. You tell him you don’t need to go to the gym because you make healthy choices in all other areas of your life ("What do you mean Reece’s isn’t an acceptable breakfast food?!?!! It’s got PEANUT BUTTER in it!!!!")

2. You bought a bunch of cute little gym outfits to motivate you but just can’t bear the thought of getting them all sweaty ("I would come work out with you, but I don’t have any clothes that are gaudy enough…")

3. On the few occasions you actually end up at the gym you sneak a box of chocolate almonds into your workout bag and reward yourself one – or two – or three – for every minute you survive the elliptical ("You don’t understand honey, these are just like a super-potent form of energy bar!")

But if after all your complaints you’re still determined to work out with your man (and not to mention fit into those adorable jeans you wore last summer) don’t fret, there is a cure. First take a sexy dose of motivation – after you’ve jumped rope reward yourself by jumping straight into the sack, after all, exercise is a powerful aphrodisiac! DIRECTIONS FOR USE: Grab your dude or favorite vibrator and get down to serious pleasure biz-nass.

If that’s not a potent enough drug, prescribe yourself some womanly workouts at a gym like Flirty Girl Fitness (http://www.flirtygirlfitness.com/) where your membership includes pole dancing lessons and Flirty Fight Clubs. After all, I don’t know a quicker anti-gym-depressant than hanging upside down off a stripper pole appreciating your hot bad-girl self.

But if that still doesn’t do it for you?

Well at least you’ll always have the trusty stationary bike.