THOSE of you who know me might want to sit down before reading the next sentence.
I have a personal trainer.
I’ll give you 10 minutes to compose yourselves and/or realise that the first sign of the apocalypse is upon us.
I’ve basically done all I can to lose weight by myself. It’s been hovering around the 204 pound mark for about three weeks now so I’ve obviously plateaued out at that level. I have about 35 to go til I hit my target but I realised that sticking to the diet and walking on the treadmill either won’t do it or will take about six years at this rate. So I decided to look for a gym and see what I could find. After checking a few out and dismissing them due to distance or cost ($75 sign-up fee? piss off!) I settled on 6 Degree Fitness as it’s reasonably priced and only a couple of miles from Mut Towers.
So I called and was put onto a trainer called Justin. I explained what I wanted — basically, to get rid of my boobs and belly and actually develop some upper body strength — and he told me that there were only two things I could do: walk faster for longer, or do something called “core training”. No, I have (or had) no idea what that is. So I agreed to go along on Tuesday morning to see what he could do. I think I can safely say I’m the first person to pull up in the gym’s car park with a cigarette in my gob.
I explained to him what I’ve been doing over the past 13 months and how I managed to lose 52 pounds in that time, but now I’ve hit 204 and can’t seem to shift any more. Justin explained that my body’s got used to and adapted to walking, so even though it’s good for me and will burn calories it’ll take a lot longer to hit my goal of 170. He asked about my diet — basically cereal, sandwiches, fruit, yoghurt, no sugar/processed crap — and told me to give up the bread. Instead I’m eating veggie omelettes for brekkies and huge salads for lunch and dinner. I’m sticking with fruit and yoghurt as I need something sweet.
After the chat we got started with something called “the plank”, which is where you hold yourself up on your forearms. I can’t remember what time I managed but it was much longer than the five seconds I thought I’d last. After that it was pushups. Pushups? Do you know the last time I did pushups? Neither do I. But I did some — I think 20 or so? — and then we moved on to squats, squats with weights, lifting weights, pulling weights and a whole host of other exercises that after an hour made me feel like I’d spent a night with a couple of 19-year-old nymphomaniacs, the only difference being that I was still alive.
I mean, I couldn’t move. I could barely walk. I never realised there are muscles at the front of my thighs but came to know them intimately every time I tried to sit down, stand up, walk, or pretty much make any movement whatsoever. My shoulders were on the verge of filing for divorce, my shirt, underwear and shorts were soaked with sweat and my chest and stomach ached because apparently there are, in fact, muscles under my flab and they’d just had to come back to work after a 30-year tea break. I drove the first half-mile home in first gear as I could not lift my leg to operate the Mini’s clutch. When I got home I had to call my supervisor and ask if I could work from home as a) I couldn’t see me being able to drive to Costa Mesa and b) I really didn’t want to fall asleep in the office. He was OK with it so at least I could take a nap during my lunch break.
Wednesday morning found me in Ralph’s at 8am buying stuff to make omelettes and salads. Let me repeat that: I WAS IN A SUPERMARKET AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING BUYING STUFF TO MAKE OMELETTES AND SALADS. I bought a ton of food — $75 worth — and I’ve been eating an avocado and mushroom omelette for brekkies and huge salads the rest of the day since.
And is all this worth it? When Justin weighed me on Tuesday I was 204.8 pounds. According to the scales in the bedroom, this morning I’m 200 pounds. I texted Justin to ask if this could possibly be right and he thinks it is. Bloody hell.