So, yesterday after I wrote my blog, literally minutes after posting, the phone rang and it was the personal trainer. He apologized for our previous misses and promised to meet with me this morning. I didn't hold my breath that he'd actually be there, but he was, so I started to believe that perhaps my blog has powers -- I type, and viola, results! Maybe if I write about a million dollars, some of those dollars will come knocking at my door: what do you say dollars?
Anyhoo, I just returned from my session with the trainer and my arms are literally so tired that I can barely eek out these words, it's hard just to lift my fingers for typing -- I'm pooped!
It made me realize that when I work out, I run or lift until it's tiring or uncomfortable or boring and then I'm done, and I don't really push myself that hard. Like today, we were doing bicep curls, and I was tired at eight, but he told me to do two more, so I did two more and then he made me do one more and hold it and then slowly return. I would never make myself do that. There were many more reps and sets on other machines and with free weights, and then there were the abs. My god, the abs! On the big ball, with a medicine ball, with the legs, my goodness, my little stomach muscles were burning! At first I thought he was a kind of gay Nazi, but then I started to appreciate the push.
When I played high school sports, we had coaches yelling at us to run faster or longer, and to do just one more sit up, etc, and of course, we all did them. When you have someone pushing you, you find the strength to go ahead and do what you didn't think you could do. I guess I need someone to boss me around: Like a boot camp instructor! No, I don't want someone yelling or blowing a whistle in my face because I just might rip that fucker right out of his lips, but it would be nice to have a workout partner or a trainer to help me go a little further than I would push myself -- firm yet fun. This guy seemed like the perfect combination.
But then our date took a turn for the worse.
We were chatting in between sets and he was asking me about myself, and I told him that I teach at a community college and he asks, "How old are you?" (Very common question by the way, I am the size of an Oompa Loompa, so many people think I'm twelve.) I told him I am 27. "Oh my god! I thought you were like 20 or 21!" he exclaimed. I smiled at this because it's one of my favorite misconceptions about me. But then he elaborated, "You're aging very well."
What? Aging? Isn't that what you say about middle aged people or old people? Maybe it just slipped out because he probably works with a lot of old people (the gym in chock full of them). Or maybe because he was only about 19 or 20, he figured it was flattering wording, but to say someone is aging well, is to say "Well, your age spots are hardly noticable! And look at your papery thin skin; why, that's magnificent!"
After that, our relationship went downhill, and I don't know if we'll see one another again. I doubt I'll call him and I'm not going to wait around for him to call. Aging! My god.