Lazarus the Maniacal Serbian Trainer

There I was, innocently minding my own business at 8ish this morning at the skanky New York Sports Club. Trying to tone and steam and get the fuck out by 9. A little weights, a few sit ups, that's it. (I had spent yesterday morning on the bike for 45 minutes, gazing at Kelly Ripa gazing medicinally back at me, so thought I could pop in and do some weights and then split).

But that all changed when Lazarus came loping by...
"Vat are your goals?"
"Um, I dont have any, really, this morning, its early and I don't want to think about the future"
"Follow me -- " we entered the mirrored boxing tank
"Some people maybe they don't have realistic goals. like, 'I vant to look like Nicole Kidman' vich you do, a little"
Oooh, we like Lazarus...
"Hm... but I eat..."
"Eating is good! Now jump!!"

And before I knew it, my quiet little session was hijacked and I was running suicides (suicides?!)and doing deep knee leaps with Lazarus before 9am.
"Higher! Harder! Butt lower! Faster!"

"Now... ve go to bike room, you give me 15 minutes... faster! go! work! Old men ride the bike for hours... push yourself or I'm going to do it for you!!"

I've been delirious ever since.

Am I hooked? Will I pay the grinning muscular Serbian soccer stud to kick my ass each week?