ow

I hurt. All over.

I can't sit down without making an embarrassing "heee-flaaaoowwww" noise. I walk in stilted, tiny geisha steps, and I massage my thighs at every chance. Have I gone mad? Apparently. I hired a personal trainer.

I've been unhappy with my weight loss progress for awhile. The up and down, back and forth, on-again, off-again disarray of how I've been living is just not working. I've been on Weight Watchers for five years. Have I made progress? No. Doing the same thing over and over and not getting results is pointless. I need a routine, a master plan in the hands of someone else, encouragement, and accountability. That's where Trainer Branden comes in. Our first session was Thursday at the gym I just joined.

I'm not sure, but I think he tried to kill me.


I started off all fresh and perky (camera phone photo taken in my car). Afterward, I looked like this:


And I'm not kidding. I was WIPED OUT. All my makeup had melted off, my hair had sweated and curled itself to twice its size, and my muscles felt like a shaky mass of rubber. I wanted to lay down in the parking lot and cry.

There were lunges and squats and lunges and squats and squats and squats and squats. Machines. Balance balls and weighted little balls. Kicks. Crunches. I had thought I was in decent shape for chubby girl who'd survived Lyme disease, but apparently this was not the case. 

I wanted Branden to know that I hadn't always been like this, throwing in comments like, "I used to be really thin," or "I used to be a figure skater," or "I used to have much more endurance before I got sick." He was not impressed, and I realized that the used-to-be's don't matter. This is what I am right now, and I have a lot of work to do. No one was going to hand me a brand new size 8 body just because I used to be a perky little skater. 

"I like you much less now than when we started," I commented to Branden as he pushed down on a weighted ball I was lifting over my head while seated on a big balance ball, sweaty mascara running down my face and my arms shaking.

"Well, at least you're not throwing anything at me," he replied cheerfully. Had people actually thrown things at him? I wondered, but I was too out of breath to ask. By the end of the session, I began to understand why winging a five pound ball at his head would seem like a good idea.

I hired him because I will never do this on my own. I would never willingly go to the gym and do 5,000 squats on purpose, without someone standing in front of me and cheering me on. I would just stay in my comfort zone of the treadmill or stair stepper, maybe do a few half-hearted arm machines, and call it a day. Slightly tired, but not pushed to the limit. 

I want to put on my skates and land a flip jump when I'm 40. I want to wake up in the morning excited about what I'm going to wear, and not dread the same oversized clothing that helps me cover up a body that embarrasses me. I want to hike up a mountain and not feel exhausted.

I want my outside to reflect how I feel in the inside. And so, on Monday, I begin. Get ready, Branden. You have your work cut out for you.