footballcat
Hardly a Newbie
This is dedicated to every woman who ever attempted to get into a regular workout routine.
Dear Diary...
For my fiftieth birthday this year, my husband (the sweet dear) purchased me a week of personal training at the local health club. Although I am still in great shape (from playing on my high school softball team) I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.
I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Bruce, who described himself as a 26 year old aerobics instructor, and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My husband seemed pleased with my sudden enthusiasm to get started.
Well, the club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress, so here it goes:
Monday:
Started my day at 6:00 am. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Bruce waiting for me. He is something of a Greek God - with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo!!
Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring. Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.
This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!
Wednesday:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying on the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot. Bruce was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying.
My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?
Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other shit too.
Thursday:
Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half an hour late, it took me that long to tie my shoes. Bruce took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in the men's room. He sent Lars to find me, then, as punishment, put me on the rowing machine
-which I sank.
Friday:
I hate that bastard Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic little cheerleader.
If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it. Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the &*@*#$ barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich.
(Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from.)
The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Saturday:
Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing him made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the *$@#&^ Weather Channel.
Sunday:
I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband (the IDIOT) will choose a gift for me that is fun-like a root canal or a hysterectomy.
Dear Diary...
For my fiftieth birthday this year, my husband (the sweet dear) purchased me a week of personal training at the local health club. Although I am still in great shape (from playing on my high school softball team) I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.
I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Bruce, who described himself as a 26 year old aerobics instructor, and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My husband seemed pleased with my sudden enthusiasm to get started.
Well, the club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress, so here it goes:
Monday:
Started my day at 6:00 am. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Bruce waiting for me. He is something of a Greek God - with blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile. Woo Hoo!!
Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit. I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring. Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.
This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!
Wednesday:
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying on the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot. Bruce was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying.
My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?
Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other shit too.
Thursday:
Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being a half an hour late, it took me that long to tie my shoes. Bruce took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in the men's room. He sent Lars to find me, then, as punishment, put me on the rowing machine
-which I sank.
Friday:
I hate that bastard Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic little cheerleader.
If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it. Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the &*@*#$ barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich.
(Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from.)
The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Saturday:
Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing him made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the *$@#&^ Weather Channel.
Sunday:
I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband (the IDIOT) will choose a gift for me that is fun-like a root canal or a hysterectomy.
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