Personal Trainer

I was supposed to meet with a personal trainer at the beginning of my membership at the gym, but the first day we were supposed to meet, he called and cancelled the time because he said the gym would be too busy. So we re-scheduled, and then he called again and left a message that we would have to re-schedule again. I called him back and left a message, but that was three days ago and he still hasn't called me back to find a suitable time for us to have a date.

That's okay, I don't need no stinkin' trainer.

I actually do feel pretty competent with both cardio machines and the weights. In college, and in high school, I took weight training as a class, so I know how to pump some iron. Except I am a little frightened by the free weights, not because I don't know how to use them, but because there are always these hulking men over there who are grunting. They scare me. It was that way in high school and college as well.

In high school, it was just me and one other girl from my soccer team in that weight class. Other girls I knew were in weight training, but they were in different periods than ours. So, it was me and the "bearded lady" -- that's what we called my teammate. She literally had peach fuzz on her face and she had thick sideburns, which was a little ironic since the hair on her head was really very stringy and thin. Poor hairy thing. She was also very muscley, with huge quadriceps, and massive calves, big, strong shoulders and defined biceps. Needless to say, she was a good athlete and a great soccer player, but I'm pretty certain she was a man (which would leave me as the only girl in the class).

Because we had to have partners and she was the only other girl (those were either boobies or very defined pecks), she and I became partners. This meant I had to spot her as she benchpressed weights heavier than me. Meanwhile, I worked up to adding little five pound weights to each side of the bar, so that by the end of the semester I was bench pressing the massive weight of 55 pounds. I was a bit weak, but I really hated that class. For one thing, I had the bearded lady for a partner, and for another the teacher for the class was the wrestling coach and he was all muscled up and angry -- always yelling, "One more! I wanna see one more out of you!" Most of the guys in the class were his wrestling team (a third distraction; I thought some of them were the cutest ever, so it was hard to look all sweaty and gross in front of them), so they considered the hour in the upstairs gym another practice and they dutifully gave him one more. I, on the other hand, stopped when I felt like the weight might crush me; he would shake his head in frustration, but he must have felt sorry for me because I still got an A in the class.

My college class was deja vu. Again, with the very few girls and the abundance of guy athletes, and again with a coach (football this time, adjunct faculty). Thankfully, a friend and I had taken the class together, so we were automatically partners, but while I liked my friend, she was the opposite of the bearded lady -- she was a chatty Cathy who was just in the class so she could walk around in her sports bra and chat up the cute guys lifting weights. Naturally slim, she really didn't need to work out that much and looked good in her workout outfits (she had outfits, I had sweats I picked up off the floor). Over the course of the semester, she found several dates and even a serious boyfriend, while I was left alone to struggle with that 45 pound bar; yes, I took a step back.

But, the one thing I can say after those two classes is that I do know how to lift weights -- when, how much, how often, how many sets, reps, etc. So I really don't think a personal trainer could teach me anything new. However, I was hoping he might have been keeping the magic secret about my key to improved running hidden away in his back pocket, and if he wasn't going to give it to me, my plan was to steal it when he wasn't looking. Maybe I should try giving him another call, I'd hate to let that secret get away from me.