So I have a trainer now, which is hilarious for all kinds of reasons. Me, with a trainer! Who am I, Oprah? Do I get a cook next, or a lifestyle assistant? Who's responsible for these fucking soggy crudités, anyway? Also, there are at least three dead bugs in the reflecting pool. I cannot live like this.
I am betting that there are people out there who will assume the trainer was scheduled after one of my commenters railed against my enormous ass. (I had no idea my ass could make someone so angry. Not to mention my teeth! Let me at that weird freak who's like some kind of Pink Floyd cartoon! A giant walking ass with teeth coming out of it!) (Said commenter rocketed me back to seventh grade, when my group of "friends" sat me down and detailed everything that was wrong with my weird and misshapen body. Apparently I was problematic, and needed to be informed. No mention was made of my ass and teeth, strangely, but I do recall them being concerned with my overly pale complexion and need to grow breasts. I didn't go to the tanning salon or get implants, though, as I was twelve. Anyway, thanks, pals. As you can see I'm over it now. Sure, go ahead, friend me on Facebook! ) (However, if that commenter tries to friend me on Facebook, I will ignore her. I will ignore her so bad. Ah, delicious revenge.)
What was I—oh yes. My trainer! Actually I had scheduled time with the trainer after I joined the Y a few weeks ago and discovered just how cheap the personal training was, and also the one time I tried to use the weight machines I couldn't muster up the strength to adjust the seat (hmm, is the pin stuck? No it is not stuck I AM JUST WEAK AS AN ANEMIC KITTEN) and I was so horrified I scurried out of the room and back to the safety of the elliptical machines. I know how to use those things! You just put your feet on them and don't get distracted and fall off. Simple!
I may have fallen off a couple of times.
I told my trainer--whom I shall call Kevin, for that is his name—that my goal is to get strong. Freaky strong. "I want muscles, Kevin," I told him. "Big ones. Of course I know this isn't going to really happen, because I have the bone structure of a sparrow. But still, you get my point."
"I have never heard that before from any woman," said Kevin.
"Look," I told him. "My mom is in her seventies and can beat me at arm wrestling. She often does, for the amusement of her friends. This cannot continue."
Kevin nodded. "I see."
"Sometimes I arm wrestle with my son and I pretend to let him win, but sometimes I am not pretending. Seriously."
I waggled my tricep flab at him, and he had this weird coughing fit.
"Osteoporosis runs in my family, Kevin. My grandmother 's bones were like meringue. She sneezed and her face broke. KEVIN. DO NOT GIVE ME GIRLY EXERCISES WITH THREE-POUND WEIGHTS, DO YOU HEAR ME."
He heard me. Now I am walking funny, and I cry when I put on a shirt. But it's worth it, damn it. The next time my mom challenges me to a match, I am going to break her. (Not literally. The osteoporosis is from my dad's side.)