#18: I would flex, but I can't move.
I have been very good about going to the gym recently. I love my yoga class and have even managed to make it all the way through "Aerobics 'til You Die" class a good many times. But, like anyone with the attention span of a flea, I get bored doing the same ol', same ol'.
At the prompting of Little J, I signed up for a class one of the personal trainers was running called "Thigh Busters." It was free and I thought, "I could stand to bust a little thigh." In great anticipation of learning how to slim down my hips and buff up my legs, I arrived at the trainers desk where I met my fellow class goers, the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit models. I was tempted to ask them how they intended to "bust" what they didn't have because, as far as I could tell, they went straight from neck to leg. But quite frankly, they frightened me.
Little J was with me though, and one or two other normal looking females also arrived, so I felt less out of place by the time the class started. However, two minutes into the workout, I was ready to kill Little J for suggesting we sign up for it. "Thigh Busters." No. More like "Variations on the Squat." We squatted low. We squatted while jumping. We squatted up and down a step. We squatted across a step. We squatted over a step. We squatted with a ball. Then we threw the ball. And squatted again.
About five minutes into the squatting I leaned over to Little J, and through streams of sweat and screaming leg muscles I hissed, "I am SO writing a Column about this and blaming you." (Told you J!)
But really, my issue was with the trainers that night. Particularly the big, burly, ex-marine looking personal trainer who kept coming over to me to tell me, "You can do it!" and "Don't wimp out!" Fine. I can deal with motivational bull shit. But when he came over with his 90" biceps, stood about three inches from my face and told me to hustle, the gloves were off. I turned my head slowly to face him and through my gritted teeth invited him to "bite me." I kid you not.
Fortunately my adopted personal trainer, the Troubadour (Sir's roommate), is much less abrasive on my nerves. I went to work out with Troubadour and Sir the other day (round of applause for Sir who finally joined the gym) and Troubadour showed me how to lift weights to tone my arms. He motivated me to work so hard that I was still sore a week later. A WEEK later. That's not normal is it?
I think the Troubadour missed his calling. He works at financial institution during the week, but he's awesome at making you do one more rep with the weights. And you don't curse him under your breath while plotting to cause him physical pain! Of course if his workouts continue to cause me to be sore for weeks, I'm not exactly certain how much physical pain I could cause, even if I wanted to. Luckily I am a female and, therefore, also well versed in the art of psychological torture. Bwahahaha.
So what's up with the piddley Columns recently, huh? They've been few and far between. And short. What's goin' on here? Huh, brain? Well, sorry everyone. My head just doesn't have any good excuses. I've been busy, I guess. Which is lame. You'd think since I've been busy I'd have more fun things to write about. Which I do. It's just when I sit down to write, sometimes nothing comes. So here's hoping the next Column (which I think will be about my trip to Chicago last weekend or maybe my trip to the dentist on Thursday - ow!) won't be a month and a half in the making!
|
At the prompting of Little J, I signed up for a class one of the personal trainers was running called "Thigh Busters." It was free and I thought, "I could stand to bust a little thigh." In great anticipation of learning how to slim down my hips and buff up my legs, I arrived at the trainers desk where I met my fellow class goers, the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit models. I was tempted to ask them how they intended to "bust" what they didn't have because, as far as I could tell, they went straight from neck to leg. But quite frankly, they frightened me.
Little J was with me though, and one or two other normal looking females also arrived, so I felt less out of place by the time the class started. However, two minutes into the workout, I was ready to kill Little J for suggesting we sign up for it. "Thigh Busters." No. More like "Variations on the Squat." We squatted low. We squatted while jumping. We squatted up and down a step. We squatted across a step. We squatted over a step. We squatted with a ball. Then we threw the ball. And squatted again.
About five minutes into the squatting I leaned over to Little J, and through streams of sweat and screaming leg muscles I hissed, "I am SO writing a Column about this and blaming you." (Told you J!)
But really, my issue was with the trainers that night. Particularly the big, burly, ex-marine looking personal trainer who kept coming over to me to tell me, "You can do it!" and "Don't wimp out!" Fine. I can deal with motivational bull shit. But when he came over with his 90" biceps, stood about three inches from my face and told me to hustle, the gloves were off. I turned my head slowly to face him and through my gritted teeth invited him to "bite me." I kid you not.
Fortunately my adopted personal trainer, the Troubadour (Sir's roommate), is much less abrasive on my nerves. I went to work out with Troubadour and Sir the other day (round of applause for Sir who finally joined the gym) and Troubadour showed me how to lift weights to tone my arms. He motivated me to work so hard that I was still sore a week later. A WEEK later. That's not normal is it?
I think the Troubadour missed his calling. He works at financial institution during the week, but he's awesome at making you do one more rep with the weights. And you don't curse him under your breath while plotting to cause him physical pain! Of course if his workouts continue to cause me to be sore for weeks, I'm not exactly certain how much physical pain I could cause, even if I wanted to. Luckily I am a female and, therefore, also well versed in the art of psychological torture. Bwahahaha.
So what's up with the piddley Columns recently, huh? They've been few and far between. And short. What's goin' on here? Huh, brain? Well, sorry everyone. My head just doesn't have any good excuses. I've been busy, I guess. Which is lame. You'd think since I've been busy I'd have more fun things to write about. Which I do. It's just when I sit down to write, sometimes nothing comes. So here's hoping the next Column (which I think will be about my trip to Chicago last weekend or maybe my trip to the dentist on Thursday - ow!) won't be a month and a half in the making!
|
posted by Sun at 3:20 PM
0 comments
