Exercise is sometimes like corporal punishment. We brutalize our poor little muscles mercilessly in hopes they’ll shape up as fast as possible. We stress and strain them, oftentimes beyond their capacity, and then wonder why they seek revenge the day after, or the day after that. They’re smart little buggers. They can tie you up like a pretzel on crack.
Yes, they’re sneaky little bastards!
My last trainer’s favorite phrase was, “Do twenty more”.
I’d look at him with my best ‘fuck you’ glare.
Wwenty more and they’ll be picking out a pine box for me. Twenty more and I might be picking out a pine box for him.
“My fat does not want to do 20 more,” I’d tell him.
He’d glance at my gut knowing this would hit home. I’d cuss him under my breath but start counting.
“One, two, three…” bastard!
By the 12th curl, I’d feel that muscular flame sensation building itself up to bonfire status.
“Why are we using such big weights,” I’d ask while trying desperately to suck in a breath.
“They’re only two pounds,” he’d say.
“Oh,” I’d say turning the weight so I could make sure he wasn’t bullshitting me!
The thing about trainers is that they’ve already done all the work they need to on themselves so they’re well aware of the pain they’re inflicting. Do they emote any sympathy toward you as you struggle through each exercise? Hell no!
What I hated most about my trainer was, when I’d start moaning and grunting like a pig during our weight-lifting sessions, he’d take his fingers and strum the fat on the underside of my upper arm like a virtuoso harp player just to make his point.
I’d try desperately to ignore his mockery of my fat flags and his snarky little grin. But the whole time I’d be thinking that with very little effort I could probably make contact with the side of his head with that little “two-pound” dumbbell clenched in my sweaty palm.
Oh yeah, I’d picture him slowly melting toward the ground shortly after impact completely unconscious, in which time, I could pour water over my head and down the front of my shirt in order to mimic sweat. Then all I’d have to do is sit down next to him and wait. When he’d come to I’d say, “Wow, that was a good workout, see you next week.”
Unfortunately, I could never actually go through with it because we worked out at a public park. There would be witnesses. I had to force myself to stay in control and out of trouble.
Of course by this time, he’d gotten that underarm fat moving so fast, it was actually creating a nice little breeze that kept me cool.
“… 18, 19, 20.”
At that point I’d feign exhaustion then let the weights drop from my hands hoping one of them would meet with his foot. But he was always too fast. He knew me too well. He’d step back, smile, and then bark out what was next.
“Squats,” he’d say.
“How many?” I’d ask.
“15,” he’d say.
I hate, hate, hate squats! I like what they do for my butt, and I like what they do for my legs, but I hate doing them, but not for the reason you might be thinking. The word “squat” and the menopausal gastrointestinal system do not go together.
Once that word left his lips, all I could think about was whether or not I’d taken my Gas X that morning.
He’d tap his watch and wait for me to spread my legs, square my shoulders, and then raise my arms out in front of my body hoping to keep some semblance of balance. I’d start to lower my body ever so slowly. One inch, two inches, three inches!
It’s then I’d remember that I didn’t take that little green pill. I’d meant to. I really did. I’d popped it out of its little vacuum-sealed package but then I’d set it down on the kitchen counter while I went to retrieve a bottle of water.
I knew right away this was not going to be good. Somebody was going to get hurt here!
“Go deeper,” he’d say.