Personal Trainer Trauma

Today was my first personal training session at the gym.

I literally broke a sweat before I even set foot in the door. Was this a bad decision? Is it worth it? Will I hate my trainer? All legitimate questions that were racing through my brain. The amount of caffeine I had practically injected into my body this morning couldn’t have helped my nerves. The last time I had to endure the physical demands of an instructor was in high school with my swim coach and, occasionally, the trainers in the school weight room. For some reason, that never seemed as much of an issue. Perhaps it’s because I was surrounded by other equally un-athletic team mates or gym-class associates. There were always at least a few with whom I could relate.

But here, in the “real world” gym, everything seems much more serious…mostly. I saw a girl on a treadmill the other day who was literally running her pants off. With each step, the tight Lycra leggings were inching lower and lower down her back to her butt. I’m sure she was quite proud of her sculpted rear, but it really was not a pretty sight for the rows of treadmills behind her. I nearly laughed out loud. Or perhaps I did and couldn’t hear myself beyond the double blare of my iPod and the radio tunes piped into the gym area.

Back to the training session today, I suppose I really had nothing to fear but fear itself (although I’m sure FDR never had a personal trainer). My old mantra that God didn’t mean us to bust our butts on the stair-master to keep in shape will never stop creeping up into the back of my head, but at least for the next ten weeks I will have an excuse to crawl out of my hole of an office…and perhaps wind up in a better body!