I have mere minutes before I'm off to the gym to spend another pleasant hour with Andrew. Gentle yoga I mutter to myself as I catch a medicine ball mid air in preparation for a grueling bout of side twists.
At the gym I'm called Janiac and forced to make a muscle while my bicep is poked at and (jokingly) admired.
I'm quizzed on my nonsmoking and offered tips on staying stopped. I'm told to lie down on the floor and given deep touch pressure for my lungs. A treatment I understand is also effective on anxious autistic children.
At the end of my hour, I'm red faced with shaky legs or arms depending on the targeted areas, slightly nauseated from all the core work, extremely happy and very hungry.
I vaguely remember when my nickname was Princess and my gifts came from Hermes and Tiffanys.
Now I'm a Janiac and my gifts come from short men with over sized muscles who are helping me regain my waist, my strength and my lung capacity.
Better than a bracelet any day.