For a long time I've been considering getting back into shape because as I mourned the fact that my children have lost their baby-fat I came to the stark realization that I had not lost mine. But let me be real--I just didn't feel like expending all that energy when there's so much good, bad food to be had! But in the last 2 weeks I have lost any ability I thought I had to "suck-it-in" at the pool, so I was at the "considering" stage and asking friends about the merits of their gyms. Imagine my surprise as I surfed "Craigslist" for freelance writing gigs when I came upon "Looking for writer to write on-going series of PR/fitness articles in exchange for free personal training 3x's a week". "Wow!" I thought as I took another white-trash sip of beer from my long-neck bottle of Bud and shoved a handful of Lays Sour Cream & Onion potato chips into my mouth, "That's just what I'm looking for!" (BELCH!) So I responded.
I came to my senses the next morning and laughed at my craziness as I over-buttered my ginormous "flagel" and poured waves of half & half into my coffee. I was so certain that hundreds of people applied for the gig that there was no way I'd even get a response. So, I sat down to check my email and there it was--THE xxxtraining.com email. It said, "You're just who we're looking for." Really? Me? Then it occurred to me. I was probably the only one who responded because most writers I know are notoriously lazy and quite content to sit in front of a computer all day. Hell, I should know--I count myself among their numbers. But I took this as a sign from God and decided to give it a shot.
Initially, the gods were on my side because on my first scheduled day of training I woke up with a wicked stomach virus that I was certain I had contracted from a kids' birthday party 48 hours prior. Ordinarily, this would have really pissed me off, because I've become a sort of germaphobe, but this time I was elated! In fact, if I could have found the little germ-monger I would have given him or her a big "non-antibacterial" kiss. However, that lasted only 24 hours so tonight I set off to fulfill my obligation as one sets off to death row.
Now I used to be incredibly active. I ran competitively throughout high school and college; ran every road race anywhere I could find them, and most times won for my age group. Then came kids. And snacks. I think it was the "Goldfish" Crackers that put me over the edge. Those little cheddar fish are notoriously deceiving--they look tiny and harmless, but they're really sharks and I hold them responsible for at least 10 pounds!
Getting back to my "training", I didn't even know what to wear. I had to go into the attic and find a trunk with my old work-out wear. I pulled out spandex piece after spandex piece. I could start my own '80's rock band! And then came the question--does anyone wear spandex shorts anymore? Even if they have a Nike swoop on them? I didn't have much of a choice--it was either that or a loose-fitting sundress. So I stuffed my torso into the black tubular hell that was now strangulating my small intestines and made the best of it.
I arrived at the gym and was greeted by an extremely fit and muscular twenty-something boy. (I can't help it; it's really hard to refer to someone who could be your son--if you drank one too many Jello shots in college-- as a man.) "Christ, this can't be real," I thought. But I have to say, he kicked my black spandex ass. He had me do more things with a yoga ball than any human should have to do; we lifted weights; we ran; we did jumping jacks; we pulled bands with weights; we squatted; I think I even hauled a Chevy pick-up, but that might have been what it felt like right before I became delirious. Seriously, when the hot sweat of a "good workout" turns to cold flashes, 911 should be called. But when I felt as if I could take no more my trainer shouted, "I can already see some definition in your abs." Now, when a sculpted twenty-something boy-man, tells a gelatinous 40-something woman that he can see definition in her abs, you will yourself not to faint and find that extra boost of energy! I hated to tell him that the "definition in my abs" that he saw was actually the Big Mac I ate making its ascent up to my esophagus. But right when I thought my body could go no further, he announced that our session was up. He handed me my water bottle and like a bizarro-world scene from the movie "Flashdance" I removed the cap and poured the water over my head and fell to the floor.
But you know something? When my head stopped spinning, and I felt like the need for a defribilator was lessening, I actually felt great. I mean really great. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself because I have my next session tomorrow night. And right now, the only thing I'm inspired to write is my will. Stay tuned.
