Well you can guess the rest.
Those were my exact words for my personal trainer after yesterday’s 45-minute session of muscular masochistic misery.
Now before you think I’m hangin with the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
There is no MY personal trainer.
But what I do have is three free sessions with A personal trainer.
That came with my month-to-month membership at a local gym.
A membership that costs me $50/month.
And is worth every penny.
Especially when you get free stuff.
And the philosophy of this club is to give a free sample of extra attention.
So that I get addicted.
And then I will start paying to feed that addiction.
Hey, why not.
It works for drug dealers.
And it works for Costco.
Of course, if they charged me even one of those pennies for a personal trainer, I probably would’ve passed.
But it was free.
And who can turn down free?
Not me.
So as part of this new personal training mission, they had me take a series of tests to determine my physical well being.
And to make sure I didn’t expire during an ab crunch.
The tests were quick.
And simple.
A little treadmill.
Pull on this weight.
Reach as far as you can.
Tada.
The results are in.
And congratulations Sir.
You have the body of a 44-year old.
Not bad.
I suppose.
Considering I am 43.
And will be 44 in a few months.
But honestly, I would’ve hoped for a little better.
I don’t feel a day over 41.
But wait, there’s more.
At no extra charge, you get a five-page analysis of the test results.
And with that analysis, comes a dangling carrot on the last page.
IF I can improve my “sit and reach flexibility” by 2.5 inches, I would improve my body age by two years.
And IF I my can improve my body composition by 8%, I would improve my body age by five more years.
And IF I can improve my bicep strength by 14 pounds, I would improve my body age by two more years.
And IF I can improve my cardiovascular VO2 score from 39.7 ml/kg-min to 47 ml/kg-min.
Whatever that means.
I would improve my body age by three more years.
Ok.
44, minus two minus five minus two minus three.
Whoa.
So if I buy a couple of months of personal training sessions...
...my body age will be like negative 16.
By April?
Where do I sign?
Well I signed on the computer that’s where I signed.
For the first of three free sessions.
What do I have to lose?
Except a couple of pounds.
And what’s left of my dignity.
My personal trainer showed up at noon, right on time.
He had less body fat than one of those Old Navy mannequins.
And he took me to a part of the gym that I’ve never seen before.
I knew immediately I was in trouble.
About 12 seconds in, I was sweating more than Mel Gibson at a Passover Seder.
This guy had me doing lunges.
And leg lifts.
Push ups.
And squats.
Plus he introduced me to a bunch of new places.
The Roman Chair.
The Russian Kettlebell.
The Bosu Balance Trainer.
By this point, I was praying this torture would take an immediate detour.
To The Dairy Queen.
But every step of the way, this guy was giving me all of the encouragement any out of shape 43-year old could hope for.
“Come on you fat f***, just 73 more.”
Ok, that may not be an exact quote.
But when you are literally one exhale away from passing out, “just two more” sounds like 73.
He must’ve asked me 40 times if I needed water.
And I must’ve answered 40 times.
"Huh? What?"
Finally after 45-minutes, which felt like 45 days, this mercifully came to an end.
I used what little strength I had left to shake the man’s hand.
A man who had just tried to kill me.
But he wasn't done there.
It was then he reminded me of the two sessions I had left.
The two FREE sessions I had left.
Free?
Who could pass up a deal like that?
Not me.
Round 2 is on Monday.
Not me.
Round 2 is on Monday.
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