Clearly, I am a sucker for pain. (Oooh….a sucker..that sounds good). Today I did one of the most ridiculous things a person can do to themselves…I went to a personal trainer.
I know, I know, what was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t and the result was disastrous, and very embarrassing for me.
My tiny friend, Pajama Jeans (not her real name), caught me off guard the other day while we were sunning ourselves at the pool. S
he said something about the personal trainer she uses, and asked if I wanted to join her for a personal training session.
I would like to think this suggestion wasn’t directly related to how I looked in my swimming suit (complete with a skirt of course), but I have a feeling it was.
The fact that I ate all of her pita chips at the pool probably also didn’t help. Maybe it was the sun on my back that made me say yes, or maybe it was the rush of energy I felt from eating a half a bag of pita chips, but I told her I would go to a personal training session with her.
Obviously it was a moment of insanity, and one my thighs are cursing me for even as I type this. But I am getting ahead of myself…
I agreed to try out a personal training session at her gym, which, coincidentally, is also “my” gym. The reason I use quotation marks about the gym is because although I pay a monthly membership fee, until today, I never stepped foot inside the building.
My husband goes to the gym everyday, so his membership is well used, as evidenced by his lean body and flat abs. I would hate him if he wasn’t so cute.
They told him I could join for a few extra bucks a month, so we threw me on the membership as well. So, for the last seven months we’ve been paying for a gym membership I don’t use. I like to call it my fat tax, and I have been happy to pay it.
Every time my husband suggested canceling it over the last several months, I give him a death look of death and remind him I’m going to get back on the wagon soon.
Although I had serious concerns as to whether I could launch my fat butt onto the wagon…and if the wagon could actually hold my weight.
So, today I headed to the foreign place that has been making a monthly debit (or is it a credit?) on my credit card each month.
I pulled up to the gym and found a parking spot close to the door. I quickly snagged it because I didn’t want to have to work out before the training session started.
I grabbed my excess pounds and headed to the front door. Then I saw the steps. Really?! There were steps to the gym? Two sets of them?
Why was this gym intent on giving me a workout before I even entered the building?
No wonder I never cancelled my membership….it would require a workout just to get inside the facility.
I walked inside and scanned my card. I had the card on a key chain, proudly displaying the gym’s name and logo. Over the past several months, I’ve felt bad, as I’m sure people have seen the card and thought only negative things about a place that could crank out a body like mine.
I probably owe this gym a lot of money for all the business I deterred with my flabby arms and double chin. I didn’t bring my wallet, so they were just going to have to deal with it.
Apparently when you scan your card, a photo shows up on the computer to confirm your membership. Since I’ve never been there, they didn’t have a picture. Great.
My hair was in a messy ponytail with a large bump on the top of my head that looked like a shark fin. I like to think I was celebrating shark week a few weeks late.
I looked like a disaster, and I’m pretty sure remnants of my Fiber One bar were stuck on my chest. Hey, I like to be regular.
After getting my mug shot, and avoiding judging glares from the size 2 woman at the front desk, I looked over and found my friend Pajama Jeans.
Immediately I wanted to pull that cute ponytail right out of her head. She looked adorable in her cute workout pants and tiny fitted tee.
I was already panting from my walk up the stairs, but she looked glorious and I swear a fan was blowing her hair in the breeze.
I walked over to her, cursing her small waist and asking myself why we were friends. She greeted me with a cheerful “hello” and asked if I was ready to get started.
Before I could even fake a cramp, or a stroke, our personal trainer walked over….and he was amazingly good looking! What?!
Why would Pajama Jeans torture me like this? I was expecting an older man with glasses and nose hair. What I saw before me was a tall, dark and bronzed guy who knew how to fill out a t-shirt.
For purposes of this blog, I will call him Marbi, as he is the equivalent of a male Barbi. Calling him Ken just wouldn’t be right.
I glared at Pajama Jeans and told her we would discuss this later. I then followed her and Marbi to the weights area. I was hoping to buy time with chit chat, and was prepared to speak very slowly.
Marbi wasn’t interested in hearing my life’s story. He ordered me to do squats…lots of them.
After completing my squats, and stalling during a water break, he had me go to rows. And they weren’t even seated rows…they were standing rows.
What kind of a rower stands in the boat and rows? No one I know.
I tried to point this out to Marbi, but he seemed unmoved by my arguments. He then assigned me five more for my argument. Geez. This guy was for real.
I knew I shouldn’t have looked over at Pajama Jeans at that time, but clearly I love punishment, so I looked at her only to see she was working with a kettle ball that weighed about as much as my sweet scooter Lola.
I was happy to see she was at least breaking a sweat, but it just glistened on her face and made her look even better.
Meanwhile the sweat poured off my face and I looked like I spent the afternoon doing yard work. Why was I friends with her again?
We worked on my form, and once we got it perfect, he made me do approximately one million squats. Okay, I’m exaggerating…it was only half a million.
I began the squats, and within about 30 seconds, sweat was running down my face. I glanced over at Pajama Jeans only to see her doing full push ups, with a row in between with weights. Seriously?!
I could barely plop my fat ass down for squats and she was hard core training. The worst part was that she wasn’t even sweating. It looked like she was just getting warmed up.
I finished the illogical standing rows and figured I was done, as I had done something for my legs and arms, which I thought was a good start.
Once again, Marbi disagreed. Who was this guy?
He made me do squats with weights (as if my sizable ass wasn’t weight enough for these torture moves). I began the squats with the weights, cursing Marbi the entire time, and making comments that suggested his mother was less than pure.
I finished those and he told me to go on to push ups, but he told me he would cut me a break and I could do “girl push ups” which required me to do them on my knees.
I asked if there was a small girl form…like a toddler with no muscle mass, but he told me to get to the push ups before he added more to my count.
I knew he wasn’t kidding so I got into position. I began pushing and immediately felt the burn. Then, I felt a gentle hand on my back, pushing me down further.
I looked up through my sweat-filled eyes to see his gigantic arm pushing me further down. Okay, this guy was going to get his knees knocked out after the session…Nancy Kerrigan style.
It was the only thing that kept me going.
We finished the rest of the session without incident, unless you count my heart palpitations and near stroke.
He gave me a recovery drink, which tasted good, but he knew I was crabby and obviously an eater.
I stumbled to his office with Pajama Jeans. She practically sprinted there, and he asked when I wanted to come in again…as if I enjoyed the pain and torture he put me through.
Maybe it was his biceps, or maybe he put something in my recovery drink, but I found myself agreeing to do another session. Clearly, I love torturing myself, which is probably why I watched Desperate Housewives for as many seasons as I did.
I know I need to do these sessions, if anything, to keep my friendship with Pajama Jeans. So, I will attend another session with Marbi, where I predict more cussing and maybe even some crying.
But then again, that just sounds like every date I had in college…