My Size Two Personal Trainer

This evening I am in the bed recuperating after a workout at the gym with my new personal trainer. She appeared to be no bigger than a size two in clothing, very fit and tough as nails.

I actually selected her because I thought that she would go easy on me since I am a senior citizen with knee problems. “ But no-oooh,” in my reality TV voice, pouting as I write this post. My moans and groans did not phase her a bit. She must be a military brat. “All I want you to do is try,” she insisted every time I would make discomfort sounds. It will take you awhile to get back into shape, since you have not exercised in a while,” she went on to say. “You think, size-two,” I thought to myself as I endured an awakening of my muscles.

I arrived early at the gym so that I could warm up and stretch. My first test for her was to see if she would be punctual. She was on time. I proudly let her know that I had already stretched and warmed up.

The first machine she put me on was the machine that I have never liked, the rowing machine. She had me do five-hundred rows in three minutes. Okay it was not that bad and it did not hurt my knees.

Next, she wanted me to work on some exercises to help strengthen my knees. She had me do three sets of box squats while holding ten pound dumbbells in each hand. Now my heart rate is starting to rise. On to the ankle band resistance exercises to strengthen my knees, quads and hips. I did three sets of these. Not too bad, I may make it. Well that is what I thought until she started working out my biceps which appeared to be completely dead. I had to stop at least four times along the way but managed to complete the three-sets after my heart started to race at a faster pace.

The last exercise she wanted me to do was boxing. She had me to put on some large bag gloves and punch at her padded hands. Thirty to sixty straight punches, upper cups and left-right jabs allowed me to take out some of my frustrations. However, size-two wasn’t having it. “Hit me like you are fighting for your life,” she pleaded. “I am fighting for my life”, I moaned, feeling like a wet limp noddle.

The once competitive fighting-spirit in me could not even muster up enough energy to punch with force my size-two trainer that I stood towering over. Session over. The last thing she said to me was, “take an epson salt bath because you may be sore in the morning”. My response to myself, “You think?”

So I have had a protein shake and a epson salt bath, iced down my knee and I am in bed for the evening. My size-two trainer has my utmost respect. If I survive tonight, I am looking forward to getting back in the race. I must keep moving.

@pyemoney

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