Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I
do. I’ll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency
as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully
out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape.
Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I do. I’ll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape. He listens politely to my painfully sad tales of woe about my bum knee, my achy back and makes me work out anyway. The benefits of having a personal trainer are limitless. In fact, I’ve made it my life’s purpose to stay as far away as humanly possible from my personal trainer.
Now I should explain (and I know you will find this shocking) I am no spring chicken. Nope, I am a certified, and possibly certifiable, grandmother (a.k.a. “Mimi”) with two little granddaughters and a grandson on the way. So in my opinion, personal trainers should handle me gently. With respect. Reverence, perhaps. Ok, perhaps not.
Let me tell you how it is when I meet with David. He feigns happiness to see me. He professes he’s glad I’m back at the gym. And then he proceeds to kill me.
Look, I’ll be the first to admit I am no accomplished athlete. Sure, back in school I could kick butt in track and field. But I had my weaknesses. Remember the climbing rope torture device that was part of P.E. class? Oh, mama!! How embarrassing was that? I’d approach the thick, braided cable with my heart stuck in my throat.
Because this was going to be beyond bad. Way beyond. I’d drag myself onto the rope where I’d hang swinging in sad, slow circles, my feet planted on the knot, wondering how the heck I was going to get out of this one.
Maybe somebody would pull the fire alarm. Hopefully the Russians would attack. ANYTHING to get me off this thing.
As I hung there willing my feet to do something besides twist themselves ever more tightly into the knot, my toes cramping inside my sneakers, I cursed my eternal weak spot. My arms. There was no way those weaklings would pull me to the top.
Sure, many of my classmates – even GIRLS, for the love of God – could shimmy up the rope, tap the ceiling smartly and shimmy back down. Not me. Nope – those sad, slow circles. That’s where I stayed.
And I swear those dang ropes were a source of humiliation forever. From kindergarten until I was the approximate age of dirt, it seemed there was one of those blasted ropes waiting to be climbed. Seriously. Ok, maybe it just felt that way.
So I know my limitations. But David doesn’t. No-siree-bob! After my “cardio,” which consists of lacing up my tennis shoes, David sends me to the stationary bike. “Go ahead and do 15 minutes of warm-up,” he instructs. What? What do you mean “15 minutes?” If I could do 15 minutes, would I need to be here? This is what I say in my head. To David I smile and say, “Sure! No problem!” I just hope he can’t hear me grinding my teeth.
After I’m “warmed up,” i.e. exhausted to the point that a week in a lounge chair on a beach in Barbados wouldn’t revive me, he escorts me to the machines. Have I mentioned torture? Yes, friends, this is legalized cruelty to old people.
David sits me on a seat the approximate width of a 3-month old baby’s hand. Next he hauls down a couple of bars that he has me grip. With David helping me hold the bars, I’ve assumed a dangerously false sense of security. Then he lets go. And instructs me to lower and raise those bars above my head. Holy cow.
“Why don’t we just go to the parking lot and I’ll bench press my car,” I say. “That can be arranged,” he replies.
But let’s be honest here; after several months’ absence, it’s time for me to go back to the gym. Let David drag out the old whips and chains. … Ahem. Whips and chains? Ok, I suppose I COULD use a little toning (black leather boots) in a few spots (blindfold).
My personal trainer IS, after all, a trained professional (handcuffs) and although I don’t need the bulging biceps guns (chain mail) that some of those hulky bodybuilders have (Ravish-Me-Red lipstick), a firm physique WOULD allow me to get on the floor (spiked arm bands) and play with my grandchildren because life is just WAY too short (wrist restraints), isn’t it? Nope! Never let it be said I was afraid to just jump right in there and give it a whirl (leather ceiling harness).
Well! I may be a grandmother, but who knows? This Mimi’s House of Pain thing might be…fun? I’m just saying.
