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Wednesday, February 9, 2011

My Nice Trainer

 by Erin Dickins                                                                                                                                   
Photo Michael Ramondo

As I embark on round two of my musical career, it occurs to me that once again, I am setting myself up to be in the spotlight.  And this time around, the spotlight has taken on a new meaning – I am not 23, and media is totally out of my control.  Between smart phones and Flip video, Facebook and YouTube, things are likely to get pretty ugly pretty fast.   To think that in the past I was concerned with my teeth looking white!  Hah!  That now seems now ludicrous.  God knows what horrifying poses might be innocently “tagged” for all to see!   What saggy, gray, puffy, bulgy, downright depressing images might be shared – to exist forever in the blogosphere?  As my family, friends and fans snap and upload away, my beloved Photoshop and I sit cringing on the sidelines, unable to pretty things up.  So, I decided I had better take action.

Not being one for surgical procedures, I bought the most expensive goopy skin products I could find, and hired a personal trainer. Over 40 and wrinkle-y is tolerable. Over 40 and out of shape is not.

So, for about a month now, I’ve been working with just the nicest guy.  He is kind, considerate and encouraging.  He’s designed a moderate workout plan and has put together a very manageable not-on-a-diet eating plan that is meant to fit my lifestyle.  Of course, nothing could ever fit the cherished rock-and-roll lifestyle that I so begrudgingly abandoned a while back.  My very nice new trainer tries to make sure that I do not hurt myself by over-doing it.  The last time I hired a trainer I beat the shit out of him on the tennis court.  SIGH.

In any event, even with this kinder, gentler approach, I am making progress.  I’ve lost some weight, my jeans are looser and my energy level is better.  Why, just this morning I commented to my husband that I am beginning to think that I may someday have a waist again.

While this is all well and good, I am not fool enough to believe this is all he has in store for me.  I figure I’ll get to just amble along in this loveliness for a while, and then he’ll lay it on me – the real workout, the real diet.  It’ll be brutal, I just know it.  I figure he’s just getting me sucked-in as deep as he can before he drops the bomb.  So for now, I am trying to appreciate every minute for as long as I can.

Today I received a rather disturbing e-mail from my nice trainer. Along with his usual kind words of encouragement, he sent along a very funny blog (author unknown) about working out.  Yep, this is it - I fear the moment has come.  You may not hear from me for a while, but if I manage to emerge from this experience alive, I will be the one with the ibuprofen – and a waist.  Enjoy.

A Woman’s Week at The Gym  
(Posted by Jennifer Hillier 5/15/10 Author - unknown)

Dear Diary,
For my 40th birthday this year, my husband (such a sweetheart) purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me.  Although I'm still in great shape since being a high school cheerleader 23 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.  I called the club and booked sessions with a personal trainer named Christo, who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and underwear model.  My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started.  The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.
Started my day at 6:00 a.m.  Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Christo waiting for me.  He is something of a Greek God, with blond hair, dancing eyes, and a dazzling white smile.  Woo hoo!

Christo gave me a tour and showed me the machines.  I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today.  Very inspiring!

Christo was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.  But I know this is going to be a fantastic week!

I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door.  Christo made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air, and then he put weights on it.   My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I ran the full mile.   Christo's rewarding smile made it all worthwhile.  I feel great!  It’s a whole new life for me.

The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals.  Driving was okay as long as I didn’t try to steer or stop.  I parked on top of a bicycle in the club's parking lot.

Christo was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for this early in the morning, and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine which is very annoying.

My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Christo put me on the stair monster.  Why in the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Christo told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy my life.  He said some other shit, too.

Asshole was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed.  His thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl.  Excuse me, I couldn’t help being a half an hour late – it took me that long to tie my shoes.

He made me work out with dumbbells.  When he wasn't looking, I ran and hid in the restroom.  He sent some skinny bitch to find me.

Then, as punishment, he put me on the rowing machine – which I sank.

I hate that bastard Christo more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world.  Stupid, skinny, anorexic little aerobic instructor.  If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

Christo wanted me to work on my triceps today. I don’t have any triceps!  And if you don’t want dents in the floor, don’t hand me the goddamn barbells or anything else that weighs more than a sandwich.  Asswipe.

Satan just left a message on my answering machine.  He asked me in his grating, shrilly voice why I did not show up today.  Just hearing him speak made me want to smash the machine with my diary; however, I lack the strength to even use the TV remote control. I spent the day watching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.

I’m having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank God that this week is over.   I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for me that is fun – perhaps a root canal, or a hysterectomy.

1 comment:

  1. Ok, I laughed out loud. (I know I'm supposed to type LOL, but sometimes I just feel like typing real words.) Thanks for sharing!