Today marks the 4 week anniversary of my hiring a personal trainer and-even more importantly-my actually showing up for the appointments.
I finally got tired of being unhappy with my body, and I decided that if I were going to figure out how to fix that on my own I would have done so by now, seeing as how I’ve had the past 33 years to try.
I had very specific requirements in mind for the person who would fill the role of my personal trainer. Specifically, they had to be someone to whom I could say, “I hate you, you evil sadistic bastard!”, and they would say, “That’s fine. You’re still doing squats.”
OK, so I would never actually say that out loud to anyone. But clearly I am speaking volumes with my eyes. Because occasionally as I’m working out my trainer will tell me to start a new exercise, look at my face, laugh, and then say, “I know. You’re welcome.”
So I’ve been doing really well this last month. I’d love to have dramatic photos to post here for you, but while I personally can see differences, they are not yet pronounced enough to produce a stunning visual contrast. But I did reach an important milestone today-I received my first training injury.
And if you know me At All, you will know exactly where this injury occurred. Yes, that’s right: I hurt my ass working out.
“Hm,” you might say. “I didn’t know that there was anything to hurt in your ass.”
You would be wrong.
Listen. Can you hear it? That is the sound of the Universe laughing.
(“Hm, so you like to use the word ‘ass’ as much as possible in your stories, do you? Well OK then-here ya go!”)