Day 2 of Personal Training: No Puke... Again!

Just a phenomenal effort from all parties, but with special mention to me, for not even coming close to wanting to puke. Granted, this personal training session was only 30 minutes, rather than 45 minutes like the first session, but I still count it as a win.

As a "warm-up," my trainer had me run up and down a set of stairs 3 times. The stair were about -- oh -- 3 flights worth? Maybe a little less? I could handle that part, but what I couldn't handle was the idea of going down the stairs with my body oriented forward. Instead, I kept wanting to side-step it, you know, sort of angling my body to the left so that more of my foot would land on each stair. I think it comes from me not wanting to die.

Fast-forward to the middle of my workout(!), where I'm doing a set(!) with dumbbells(!), a woman comes over and starts sassing me for being scrawny. Good thing it's true, otherwise I'd have punched her in the face. Turns out, she was a former client of my trainer who used to be fat and who was apparently almost 70 years old. There's no way to bloggily do this justice, but she looked like she was in her late-40's. And without any Demi-Moore-ing it, either. This isn't faint praise--it's like personal training really works(!).

That's New.

I hate working out, but apparently it's a thing that grownups do to stay alive. Despite the bar's best efforts to usurp every waking (and sleeping) minute of my life, I decided to get one of those trial packs for a personal trainer at my gym.

I've never done personal training. Before today, I didn't even really understand what they do other than yell at you for being weak and needing just. one. more. rep. And yes, I probably judged those people who get a personal trainer for being vain--while secretly wishing that I could have one. So you see, I hate the gym, and I hate working out (because I don't know how? Nah.). But, I'm trying this new thing where I stop thinking so much about stuff and just see what happens.

Well, turns out, what happens is I almost throw up. My trainer did a diagnostic. A diagnostic. I'm talking weighing, blood pressure, "endurance," balance, core, etc. Real, um, basic stuff. And I'm so eager to impress this stranger--whom I'm paying(!)--that I push myself on a diagnostic to the point that I almost puke, actually feel like the room won't stop spinning, and have to lie down in the middle of the gym for a good 10 minutes.

I'm gonna be so hot.