For my birthday this year, my husband purchased a week of personal training at the local health club for me. Although I am still in great shape since playing on my school netball team, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.
I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer I'll call Bruce, who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My husband seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started.
The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.
He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his lycra aerobic outfit. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring. Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!!
Bruce was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?
Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other rubbish too.
Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the &*@*#$&*@* barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. (Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from).
The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?