I have no choice. I am forced back into an exercise regimen. I once thought working out might be good blog material. Only I’ve come to the conclusion there’s nothing funny about exercising. But today I fastened, …er tried to fasten, my pants and knew I had to bite the bullet (instead of the slice of carrot cake) and go to the gym. The last time I waved my hand frantically to catch someone’s attention, the jiggly skin from the underside of my arms lapped my bicep. I hate old lady flab.
Couponman got me a deal I couldn’t refuse — a free personal training session. Wanting to make the most of the 50-minute session, I arrived early and did a 15-minute warm-up on the elliptical. I was breathing pretty heavy when I sought out Megan. “What do you want to accomplish?” she asked.
“I don’t want bingo wings or a square butt,” I panted. I’d looked in the mirror this morning before leaving for the gym. My rear end still still had some shape (round is a shape, right?), so exercising that part of my body should foil progress of the notorious flat butt that squares out and begins to ride up older women’s backs. The Jell-O-like flab on my upper arms was past the preventative stage. I’m hoping my gym contract doesn’t exclude preexisting problems. “And getting rid of this back fat,” I added, grabbing hold of a wad.
“Okay.” Megan jotted some notes down on paper.
“Probably a machete would do better,” I suggested.
“Oh, we prefer to keep it bloodless here.” That’s what she thinks. I had a feeling I’d be sweating blood.
“I heal pretty quickly,” I said. I patted my elbow. It was almost back to normal. I glanced at my finger. You could hardly see the scar.
“How much do you want to lose?” she asked.
“Ten to fifteen pounds,” I said. I hated to admit it. I needed to lose the same ten pounds I lost in the weight loss contest from work. I’d been having too many guiltless Thursdays this summer. Summer’s loaded with fresh fruit. And fruit just goes better with shortcake, pies, ice cream…
Megan had me try a squat, but my knees threw a coup. Instead she put me on a leg press that forced me into a fetal position. My knees were bent at a 45° angle, my thighs pushed against my midsection. “This will give you full body range and take the pressure off the knees,” she explained. “Now straighten your legs.” I did pretty well pushing the footplate away, at least better than I’d been pushing away my dinner plate, until she had me lift one leg and push with one foot. I’d never done a one legged squat before. There’s a reason. I’ve got two legs. Why would I want to use only one? I felt the same way about ice cream. Why eat one scoop if there’s two?
Then without a break, I was on a mat doing push-ups. Girly push-ups, but push-ups none the less. “Roll over,” Megan instructed. “Bend your knees and put your hands behind your head. Let me see you do a crunch.”
I raised my head and neck. My chest and back fought me every inch of the way. Literally. I finally raised my shoulders off the ground a couple of inches. The rest of the body wasn’t following. Probably the closest I’d come to a crunch in a long time was Nestles. “In my mind’s eye,” I said, “I see myself pulled all the way up.” Megan smiled. She held my feet down for me and I pulled up to my knees while my arms were outstretched in front of me. As we neared number ten, I felt relieved.
Then she had me repeat the reps (that’s gym lingo for torture) two more times. After a three minute breather, we were on to biceps, pull-ups, and balancing on what looked like an orange sea urchin.
Afterwards I was dead tired, but I felt good in an odd sort of way. I like Megan. I still don’t like exercising.
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- On a roll
- Exercise overdose
- You won’t believe it
- Going out on klutz leave
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Good for you, Penny!