"How motivated would you say you are, on a scale from 1 to 10," he asked.
"Oh. I'd say a solid 6."
"That's it?" he asked. "Only 6? You couldn't even go as high as 8? Wow."
(Considering I'm usually about a 2, this is a major milestone for me.)
"What are your long term and short term goals?" he asked next.
"To be in really good shape next year. When I turn 35. I don't have any other goals. I don't want to do triathlons. I don't want to run races. That's it. No, I don't have any short term goals and after I meet that goal, I don't have any further goals. I'm highly motivated like that."
We joined a gym over a year ago. And when you first sign up they promise you two free meetings with a personal trainer. I was pregnant at the time and asked to put it off until I was ready. Finally, 10 months after having the baby, and a few months after trying to get my workout routine going, I decided I was ready.
I met with...oh...let's call him Franz, just for fun...for a meet and greet a couple days ago. Franz is a college athlete. A YOUNG male athletic-type person. This might be the worst possible person for this job, I quickly realized. He has NO FREAKING CLUE about creaky knees and childbirth-stretched-out abs and how sore I am going to be after this shit. No clue. I suddenly felt old. Like, old and out of it and.....just old. He did my medical history, asked me what I was interested in doing fitness-wise. Scoffed at me for eating McDonald's or Burger King once or more a week. I told him I wanted a concise workout that could be done in under and hour twice a week that could make me look like Demi Moore by next May. He laughed and said, "No. Seriously. What are your real workout goals?"
(What? That isn't do-able?)
Today was the first actual workout with Franz. The other day, I mentioned that I didn't need help with cardio, just with the weights portion of it. So, I breezed in there today in my regular bra, and drawstring cotton capris liberally strewn with baby food detritus and an ill-fitting T-shirt.
Now, what kind of jackass wears a regular bra to the gym when meeting with a personal trainer? I'll tell you who. A woman who already went on an hour and a half death march over a local nature trail earlier in the day and just barely roused herself from her drool-soaked nap in time to get to the physical trainer appointment. That's who. Someone who thought that since she'd been "lifting weights" fairly consistently lately, that she would just walk in there and toss some dumbbells around and leave.
Not a person who imagined herself sprinting across gym floors and leaping up and down as though she were a monkey on crack. Nursing boobs flapping akimbo and drawstring pants falling down every two seconds. No. Not that kind of person. That kind of person would have worn a sports bra. I am not that kind of person. Clearly.
Ahhhh yes. Now we're getting to the good part. The part where I almost died. The part where my lungs tried to shrivel up in one last crackling breath and leap out of my throat during one of my frequent gasps for dear, sweet oxygen in between frantic pants-pulling-up and bra-pulling-down maneuvers.
"Do you know what squat thrusts are?" Franz asked.
"No. And I don't want to find out either," I said, a feeling of doom settling around me like a heavy lead apron, crushing my will to live.
"You just do this," said Franz leaping up and down and flinging his legs out behind him.
Let me just tell you. Do not do squat thrusts. Ever. Especially if you aren't wearing a sports bra and have ill-fitting baby-food-stained cotton capri pants on. Or if you have a decent relationship with your lower back. Trust me.
After a good 20 minutes of sprinting around the basketball court and doing various hellacious things like push ups and jumping jacks and those mother-effing squat thrusts, I managed to keep my lunch down as we continued on to the weights section of the workout.
"How many is that?" I asked as my knees crackled during some kind of hideous squatting exercise. "I don't know," he answered. "I lost count because you were complaining."
"This reminds me of the time I took tennis lessons in high school," I said. "And the coach said I was supposed to run to get the balls that didn't come right to me. And I said, 'But why? I'll just wait until one comes to me.'"
"You want me to do HOW many lunges? But I HATE lunges."
"I don't usually sweat when I workout. This is kinda gross."
"Oh. And this one time? I was kicked out of gymnastics and took 'body building' in which I kind of ate donuts and did homework and listened to Reba McEntire. That was awesome. That's my kind of workout. Except I don't like Reba anymore. Now I'd prefer something more like Coldplay I think....or"
"Fifteen more reps. Let's go! Come on!"
(Poor Demi Moore. This shit SUCKS!)
I would go on about this lovely workout. Except I can't. My forearms hurt too much to continue typing. It hurts to talk. It hurts to laugh. My ribs hurt. My back. Oh Lordy. My back. My ankles. My poor flappy triceps. Oh poor babies. You are going to be on bed rest for a while little flappies.
Now I have to find that Advil. It is around here somewhere.
Some Update-y Odds & Ends
18 hours ago