Okay, so I joined the gym and signed on for the five training sessions at an enormously high rate to show myself and the world I could create a body I wasn't ashamed of before turning 41 next month. I've never paid for sex but it would be my luck that if I did, they would be a clock watcher like this trainer except he behaved as though he was charging by the second. Trainers are prostitutes at the gym - Don't get me started.
So day one is basically the, "this is how out of shape and crappy you look, aren't you glad you came to me to help you reclaim a portion of your self esteem." It began with the testing. So I'm sitting there with my nose plugged and blowing in a tube hooked to an electronic device that is going to tell me how many calories a day my body would burn if I spent my entire life on the couch watching old black and white movie musicals. As nothing can be simple for me the machine malfunctions and after ten minutes it has no reading so I must start again. Let me just say that now I know how dogs feel when you close their mouths and they can't breathe. I've never been claustrophobic but this thing had me going to that dark place. So finally the trainer gives me the number and so I ask, "Well, is that a good number?" The response you never want to hear, "There are no bad or good numbers it's just an indicator for us." Fuck that - the only indicator I want is when I read the manual on my Mini Cooper and they try to be fancy by calling the turn signals "indicator lights". But okay, I'm out of my element so I play along. Next up it's the Special K pinch an inch body fat test. Well, of course I have the same amount of fat as a large block of cheese. Next up, the scale - it's like walking down the stairs of self esteem until you reach the Prosac level!
So the testing is done and it's time for the work out to "see what I can do." Well, I know (even if Phillip the trainer doesn't) that I can't do anything. But here we go from machines to free weights to a mat on the floor to build my "core" which is the current word that replaces, "your fat disgusting stomach". The terms and exercises are floating over my head like Mike TeeVee in the original movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. But remember, I'm a strict rule follower so I follow Phillip to the ends of the gym in search of a body that I would want to photoshop my head on.
The next couple of days to say I was sore is an understatement. And yes, in a weird way it does feel good but in a "wow, I didn't know I had something that could be considered muscle there" kind of way.
And so it began - me at the gym every day listening to classic disco on my MP3 player as I fast walked the treadmill then onto a few machines to get myself ready for my next visit with Phillip. Phillip had now been added to the list of parents, mate, brother, relatives, friends, cats, employer, employees, anyone I encounter on the street and anyone I ever knew that I could not disappoint.
Let me just say that Phillip was like an Amway salesman, first he tried to sell me supplements. When I asked what was in them and why I needed them he had no clue. Then it was the classic real estate sell - "The price is going up on training sessions in two days and there are a few people we're letting know about this and I wanted to make sure you knew. So if you sign up today you can get 6 training sessions for the price of five" (which means you only have to give your first male born and you get to keep your left testicle). "Or you can call me before tomorrow and I'll lock in the price for you." Then he gives me his business card. What the fuck are these people doing with business cards when all it lists is the gym's main number? I don't understand why they need these but they seem very important in the grand scheme of things and if Phillip is happy about it, I'm happy about it.
I won't bore you with all the details of the next four training sessions but let me just say Phillip tried his damnedest to make a muscle out of me. He thought I was hysterical when on one machine I couldn't do any more and I said, "Phillip, how can you do this to a pregnant woman?" Or after spending time on the chest press machine at an obscene weight and him making me do push ups - I could only do three before I felt as though my arms were going to buckle and I would destroy my dental work so I simply laid on the bad carpet wimpering loudly. Yes, Phillip and I laughed and pumped our way through the gym. But all good things must come to an end.
And here's the deal, after changing my diet and my exercise routine I lost a whopping five pounds. How fucking depressing is that? But I will continue on in hopes of finding a way back into my Kenneth Cole pants that are sneering at me from their hanger in the closet. I will find a way to try to look at what's going on below my neck and work toward being able to look at it without throwing up a little bit in my mouth each time. And once I lose another ten or so pounds I vow, as God as my witness I will never be blobby again!
I think I've learned the basics enough to be successful in my pursuit of a better, healthier me but only time will tell and who has time for that? The one thing I have promised myself is no more blogs on this issue as it's boring me and I can't imagine it's doing anything for any of you. And you are now officially on the list of people I don't want to disappoint.
But think of me, listening to Got To Be Real as I watch Phillip train other fatties, skinnies and generally out of shape people from my hamster wheel - the treadmill. Does he really care about me anymore? Does a prostitute care about you after you pay? Trainers at the gym and prostitutes are the same thing - don't get me started!