Lost in Suburbia: I’m all pumped up
This time last year, I struggled with my New Year’s resolution to go to the gym.
This year I have made significant progress. I am going to the gym on a semi-regular basis. And by semi-regular, I mean, I go often enough that I actually remember where it’s located between visits.
The bad news, however, is that my workouts are just, how would you say it? Lame. Yes, they’re lame. I am a lazy gym rat. I wouldn’t even call myself a rat. I’m more like a lazy gym sloth. I get bored on the elliptical and then switch to a bike, and then I get bored on the bike and switch to a treadmill, and then get bored on the treadmill and switch to something that moves my arms and legs at the same time in different directions and looks like a medieval torture device. I even tried a few classes, but apparently those were made for Amazonian wonder women who can shoot an arrow from their inner thighs while boxing and doing burpees. I can do burpees, too, but with me it involves gas and means something completely different.
Had I gotten exercise credit for all the times I changed machines, it might have actually been a pretty good workout. Kind of like when I walk downstairs from the bedroom to the kitchen to get a cupcake and then back up again. Come to think of it, maybe that’s not such a great analogy.
But anyway, one day I faced the fact that I’m not really motivated and not getting anywhere with my workouts, so I asked another gym goer how she got her gym mojo.
“I got a personal trainer,” she said. “He kicks my butt.”
I nodded but I wasn’t sure that actually sounded like a good thing. Now, if she said, “I got a personal trainer and he gives me molten chocolate lava cake when we finish working out,” I could definitely get on board with that. But I would imagine that kind of defeats the purpose of getting your butt kicked, much like counting walking downstairs on my way to get a cupcake from the kitchen as exercise.
Maybe it’s becoming a little clearer now why this whole diet and exercise thing has been a challenge for me.
Still, the gym was running a special on training so I decided to give it a month and see if having someone yell at me while I’m on the medieval torture device would help me overcome my lack of gym-thusiasm.
(On a side note, all the trainers at my gym are in their 20’s and built like Chris Hemsworth, which may or may not be one of the reasons I decided to sign up. Naturally, they assigned me a female trainer.)
I told my new trainer, Val, I wanted to get fit and lose fat. But before I could start training, she gave me a fitness test to see which areas I needed to strengthen. I gave it everything I had, but ultimately it was determined that I had the flexibility of a cement block and the stamina of a tired bulldog. So, she decided to start me at the cement block/tired bulldog level — basically the same level at which they start people in nursing homes.
“Okay, girlfriend, I set up a circuit for you,” she finally said enthusiastically. “We’re going to start with a set of side planks first. These will help you with your muffin top. Then we’re going to do a set of squats for your banana folds. And finally, tricep pulldowns for your chicken wings.”
I looked at her, turned around, and picked up my bag to leave.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m going to get breakfast,” I said. “I have no idea what you just said, but all this talk about muffins, bananas and chicken wings made me hungry.”
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