In April this year I decided I needed to get in shape. I didn't like my pooching belly, sagging butt, or the cellulite mottling my calves and thighs so I joined Lifetime Fitness.
I have paid for memberships at gyms before, forking out as much as eighty dollars a month to keep the card in my wallet. I would tour the facility with a buff, blond, white-toothed 20-something who gushed about the amenities and the satisfaction of being in shape. Inspired, I would take a couple of spins on a treadmill, foolishly overdo in an aerobics class, fill my rented locker with product, and never return. Frankly I've always felt intimidated by the rows of weights, the massive machines, the wall-to-wall mirrors, and most of all, the sweating, grunting guys.
After a couple of yoga classes on Sunday nights with Giordi, I realized if I was going to get in shape I needed some help, someone to make me work out. I signed up for a free fitness assessment with Jeff. I lifted a couple of weights, walked on the treadmill, touched my toes, and submitted to a body fat percentage test. The guy pinched my hip and the back of my arm with a lobster-like claw and simply measured the width of the blub. I don't remember my percentage but I did learn my body age was 44. Wow, seven years wiped out in a half hour! I liked the gym. So I wrote a check for $499.50, 10 training sessions, and made an appointment with Wesley.
Wesley is a muscle bound, 5'5", 25-year-old certified trainer who is putting himself through school for Physical Therapy. He's got a sweet smile a diabolical knack for torture. I've squatted, lunged, pulled, and pressed my way through more than twenty training sessions and miraculously, can feel and see the results. Yeah, my quads and traps and abs are stronger, but wait till you see my killer pipes. See, even more impressive than the muscle I'm building is the vocabulary I've picked up.
Three sessions ago, as I struggled to curl and press seventeen and a half-pound dumbells, Wesley chimes cheerfully, "Come on Martha, feed the pythons!" I hissed and giggled my way through the second set of twenty reps. "Feed the pythons!" I chorused. I love that saying, definitely worth the price of the session.
So, for now, I'm going to keep feeding the pythons. Just wait until you get one of my killer hugs.
I have paid for memberships at gyms before, forking out as much as eighty dollars a month to keep the card in my wallet. I would tour the facility with a buff, blond, white-toothed 20-something who gushed about the amenities and the satisfaction of being in shape. Inspired, I would take a couple of spins on a treadmill, foolishly overdo in an aerobics class, fill my rented locker with product, and never return. Frankly I've always felt intimidated by the rows of weights, the massive machines, the wall-to-wall mirrors, and most of all, the sweating, grunting guys.
After a couple of yoga classes on Sunday nights with Giordi, I realized if I was going to get in shape I needed some help, someone to make me work out. I signed up for a free fitness assessment with Jeff. I lifted a couple of weights, walked on the treadmill, touched my toes, and submitted to a body fat percentage test. The guy pinched my hip and the back of my arm with a lobster-like claw and simply measured the width of the blub. I don't remember my percentage but I did learn my body age was 44. Wow, seven years wiped out in a half hour! I liked the gym. So I wrote a check for $499.50, 10 training sessions, and made an appointment with Wesley.
Wesley is a muscle bound, 5'5", 25-year-old certified trainer who is putting himself through school for Physical Therapy. He's got a sweet smile a diabolical knack for torture. I've squatted, lunged, pulled, and pressed my way through more than twenty training sessions and miraculously, can feel and see the results. Yeah, my quads and traps and abs are stronger, but wait till you see my killer pipes. See, even more impressive than the muscle I'm building is the vocabulary I've picked up.
Three sessions ago, as I struggled to curl and press seventeen and a half-pound dumbells, Wesley chimes cheerfully, "Come on Martha, feed the pythons!" I hissed and giggled my way through the second set of twenty reps. "Feed the pythons!" I chorused. I love that saying, definitely worth the price of the session.
So, for now, I'm going to keep feeding the pythons. Just wait until you get one of my killer hugs.
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