At the gym where I’ve been working out, I’ve been paired up with a personal trainer to help me take my fitness to the next level – I was convinced by the petite and cute New Client Onboarding Trainer, Jessica, that I can become the Greek Adonis I’ve always wanted to be as long as I eat properly and train “balls out” (her words not mine). I think she meant the latter figuratively instead of literally. On my first day with the trainer I was expecting an affable professional who is more concerned with what people think of him/her than getting actual results, much like the pedestrian lot at The Athletic Club, but no, this was not meant to be. The first words out of his mouth were: you are going to hate me. And after 2 weeks I can honestly say I do hate him. The previous weekend, after two training sessions, I couldn’t raise my arms over my head. Last week, after training legs, I couldn’t get my hands close enough to my feet to tie my shoelaces (Luckily, a female classmate took pity and tied them for me). Over the weekend I couldn’t completely straighten my arms nor bend them enough to scratch my chin, which was the result of our training session on Friday. Life is good. Life will be even better after I parade around Jessica’s office in crotchless workout gear – see, I’ll tell her, I WAS listening to you and not staring at your boobs.
Krav Maga. In the last 2 weeks I’ve been hit in the crotch 3 times, had an open palm to the face, been scratched so deeply on my right arm I’m sure I’ll lose some of the tattoo at some point and as of Saturday I’m sporting two red lesions down the right side of my neck. I bought a cup and a mouth guard yesterday and am feeling much smarter for it. I’m loving every second of it.