If there is something that Sandra and I have in common, we both love to use humor to get us through situations. This morning, we hit the gym, did our thirty minutes on the elliptical, and then we were supposed to meet Zack, the personal trainer. Zack was not available at 10 am. Apparently his client before us was feeling light headed and dizzy. This does not bode well for us. We finally just decided that the fates had spared us from the physical assessment, and started to work out without him. Obviously, it simply wasn't supposed to happen. Of course, he trots over, reintroduces himself, and asks if we still have enough time. We decide to go ahead and give it a shot. The first thing he wants us to do is weigh in. Not my favorite activity. My first question, "Ok, but where is this scale, because I need to get naked before I get on. I want as little added to my total as possible." After getting off the scale, sadly, fully dressed, I discover that their scale is a lying piece of crap. Of course, Sandra blew this theory out of the water when she stepped on the scale, and said "no, that is pretty close to what my scale says." Sandra is no longer my friend after this statement...Off to the desk to figure out body fat percentage and fitness goals. Another depressing subject. I discover that my weight loss goal is just 5 lbs under Sandra's weight loss goal. This would be just fine, except she is four inches taller than I am, so now I start to reconsider. I drop my goal by ten pounds, and then I finally settle on a number somewhere in between my lowest and my highest goal. He asked what our fitness goals were. Sandra wants to lose weight and start to live a healthier lifestyle. I may have thrown the guy off his game when I said "well, I would love to make sure that I am not dead at 52, but getting back in a size 6 would be nice as well." I explained my crappy family cardiac history, and my current hypertension and high cholesterol. He made a few notes on his page, probably to refresh his memory on CPR before he took us over to the workout area.
Sandra had to run in and change a diaper for Lila, so I am stuck making small talk with the trainer. We had confessed that we were nurses earlier when he told us about his previous client. We offered to help out if needed. I discovered that even a little discussion of blood and surgery was enough for this guy to lose his color. Sure, he could bench press me with one arm behind his back, and run laps around me, but I can make him pass out with just a little discussion of c-sections and birth...Achilles heel discovered and mental note made. If he starts to get too intense, a simple discussion of a 4th degree laceration or emergent c-section should buy me some time. Now to some weight machines. While we are working out, he lets us know that he was in the "special forces" at some point, and he discusses how they used to make him do this kind of stuff in the military. Sandra says "yeah...we like to eat doughnuts where we work, which is why we are here." We start with triceps and upper body. After only two sets, I actually find myself saying "ouch, I think I sprained my left boob." Sandra is giggling, and the guy is beginning to get the idea of what he may have taken on. Sandra's turn, and then we move on to the next machine. Holy crap, I am pretty sure the muscles he was making us use have never been used before. We move to a machine used to do "dips." At least that is what Mike calls them. That machine could be burned, and sent to hell. We finish this lovely condensed (due to his previous sick client and our preschool pick up time) workout on the mats working on abs. He instructed us to lay down, and I responded "finally, an instruction I can follow." He instructs us to lay on our backs, grab his ankles, and attempt to kick him in the face. I told him that I usually like to get know a guy a little better before he gives me commands like that. Then he had us lifting our legs off the mat, and just holding them there. He started counting, and like 10 seconds later he still hadn't gotten to 2. I figured he was counting on the inside of his head. Out of no where, he finally says 2. Sandra says what I was already thinking "are you kidding me? I thought you were just counting to yourself." I also accidentally kicked him in the chin. I had dropped my legs, he was coming over to pick them up, and I was already in the process doing it myself. This equaled a quick tap to his chin with my foot.
Finally, the sales pitch. Neither one of us really had any intentions of paying for a personal trainer due to financial constraints, but now we have to listen. He shows us the numbers, discussing the goals, and how after a year, he could have us in super hero/rock star kind of shape. Sandra chimes in with "I am looking for less super hero, more side kick." We explain our lack of cash flow, and tell him we will have to discuss everything with our husbands. He starts to look deflated. We promise to get in touch with him on Monday after we discuss with our spouses, and we bolt out the door to pick up our children. Now we get to see this guy whenever we come into the gym. I feel bad. I know that some coaching would definitely improve my workouts and my results, but sadly, it just isn't in the budget for either one of us. In the mean time, I hope he won't hold it against us, and I hope he doesn't laugh at us as we try to figure out the machines on our own. As for the rest of this evening, I think I will be taking some ibuprofen with a side of Alleve. I think I pulled something in my shoulder, and I really do think I sprained my boob. Wonder how you ice and elevate that??
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