The misinterpretation of a false Irish herritage

In case you're wondering, I have red hair.  It comes from a bottle, as I have gray hair sprouting through and I am just vain enough to care. And, yes, I think that song is indeed about me.

So, today I went running into my training session late -- an missing the text that said Average Joe would be late as well.  All worked up for nothing.  It's a legs day, which inevitably includes the Bosu Ball and jiggly legs but also this evil, sadistic, and positively medieval contraption:

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 Everytime Average Joe puts me on this machine, he kills my hams and quads.  He makes me do heavy weight Pyramids, which are repetitions that go like this: 25-20-15-10-5-5-10-15-20-25.  Jiggly, jiggly jello become my legs.

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I love the feeling of the work-out being over, but seriously, every time he makes me get into that contraption I start running through Spanish Inquisition stuff in my head.

Or possibly this:

Seriously, that goes through my mind.  But the kicker today was after the Pyramid, he wanted to test if I could dig deep.  You know, dig deep within myself like a world class athelete. 

Remember, I am 34 years old and have been out of shape most of that. Digging deep, proving that I can still lift the 225 pounds he put on the medieval machine.  Yes, you read that right, 225 pounds. 

So, you ask can I lift 225 pounds once more with my child bearing thighs?

Of course. I can dig that deep within myself.

Down.

Did not expect my 200 pound trainer to sit atop the bar, adding his weight to the fold in the down position.

Alright Average Joe, clearly, you do not know the actual power I hold in my legs.

UP.

He takes a deep breath.  "AGAIN."

Down.  Internal Screaming, a string of profanities leave my mouth.  Average Joe has yet to hear my sailor mouth.

UP.  More profanities, that I didn't even know existed.

"AGAIN."  People have started crowding around me. They have stopped their workout. One of them is apparently named "Tom Jones," and Average Joe busts out in song.   I am not kidding, I think Tom Jones was about to sock him if he hadn't been part of the weight on my machine.

Down.

"Dig Deep, Strawberry Shortcake, they are all watching to see what a real woman can do."

UP. 

Profanities again. 

In case you're counting, that's at least 425 pounds, and trust me, I am way out of shape.

When I finally stand up, Tom Jones asks (because I am wearing my old Army PT shirt): "Were you an Army of One? Or is that your husband's shirt?"

"Oh," I reply with as much sarcasm as I can muster, dripping with sweat, curbing my profanities, "I am much older that that...I was 'Be all you can be."

I thought Average Joe would keel over laughing when Tom Jones couldn't come back at me, in his weight belt and sculpted upper body.

Turn's out after all that, Average Joe only worked me that hard because he thought I had celebrated my Irish Heritage on Saturday.

"Oh," I said, through sweat in my eyes, "I'm not Irish, nor did I celebrate."

"My bad." 

Who's got two thumbs and is awesome?  This chick.