The gym thing

For those of you who have been following my plight of going to the gym...I have an update on my journey. A real eye-opening epiphany.

I was sweating my heinie off on the eliptical machine, and a pert and shapely girl noticed my determination and dedication to healthy living, and could see that I *needed* to move up to that next level. So, I had the pleasure last week of working out with a certified fitness professional! (personal trainer.) Strapping, muscle-bound personal trainer hands me a file. The first step is to fill out a paper, disclosing all kinds of personal information. I had to make sure that much like my personal savings account, Sam would not have access to my file. He assured me that everything would be confidential. So I told the whole truth, my weight, my eating habits, everything. And after squeezing a stainless steel hand-device as hard as I could, I was told that due to the scientific scale? I fit comfortably in the "obese" category. Trainer told me *we* had a lot of work to do. We. I was thinking *I* was pretty tired from doing all that squeezing....

So squatty pimply-faced trainer runs me through all these machines. Now, prior to this, the only people I have seen strapped to these machines are people that should not go to the same gym as me. The ones that look good in spandex. The ones that you can almost hear the machine applauding them, and feeling proud to have such eye-candy dangling from *their* metal bars. I could hear the machine as I approached. Groaning. Oh, wait, that might have been me. So I worked muscles that I haven't spoken to since high school. And dumb-a$$ trainer says "how do you feel?" And me being on my honesty kick tell him--"I feel like $hit, actually. I think ALL the energy I had for the WHOLE DAY, was just used up on that pulley-holdy thing." He didn't know if he should laugh, and I was too tired to start him off, so we just left it at that.

We proceed to the desk, and he tries to hard-sell me his services. As a personal trainer. He asks me what my fitness goals are. I told him I didn't have any. I really don't want to set myself up for more failure in life.
"You have to have *something* you want to work for."
"Nah, not really."
"Well, swimsuit season is coming up, don't you want to look good in a swimsuit?" he says.
"Dude, I am sooooo beyond looking *good* in anything. I guess if I had a goal, it would be so that when I carry a mountain of laundry up my stairs my heart no longer flips around in my chest like a dying fish." (how's THAT for a goal)
He could immediately tell that out little session was over. I was feeling a little pissed off about the squeezy hand fat tricker machine that told me I was obese. Offended at the fact that he assumed that I did not currently look good in a swimsuit! And mostly I was tired, and my muscles hurt,and I was sweating that trickly sweat that tickles.

So we parted ways--and as I left he said, "Make sure as soon as you get home you eat some fruit to replace your lycopenes, and some protein to help your muscles re-build." I just winked at him. I already had it covered. I have a mountian dew and beef jerky in the Suburban. Health nut that I am.

And so today....I went back to the gym. A few days of depression and wound-licking, and not being able to move well, and I went back. And in the parking lot there is this jacked up truck. It looks like a monster truck, there was actually a small ladder to get up to the door. There are powerbar wrappers on the dashboard, and one of those calvin peeing on chevy or ford stickers in the window. Classy. And the best---the best part of all was the licence plate frame.....

you ready.....






"It is my duty, to rock your booty."


So I am thinking, that is a pretty heavy weight to carry around. To have it be someones DUTY to rock my booty. I guess that guy found his fitness goal. Rock on.