Adventures In Exercise

Having again achieved the zen-like state of being both skinny and flabby at the same time, I have decided to take a few personal training sessions at my new gym.

My personal trainer was a terribly nice young man. However, his arms are so huge that he appears unable to actually lower them. In fact, most of the men at my gym seem to suffer from this disorder; they all aimlessly roam the weight section, their arms sticking out from their sides. If we can relocate that sort of thing to my chest, then I will have considered my new fitness regimen to have gone above and beyond the call of duty.

The trainer began by giving me a series of tests to judge whether or not, in fact, I could afford him. Then he gave me a flexibility test, which I aced, and a balance test, which I flunked (as family will recall, I flunked hopping on one foot in kindergarten). He never actually managed to find my heart rate, so I had to assure him that I'm not actually dead -- and he finally gave up and scribbled something incomprehensible on his notepad.

He ran through the usual questions:
A.) Do you realize that a set of 6 personal training sessions is now more affordable than ever before?
B.) What are your personal fitness goals?
C.) Am you interested in the super-deluxe personal training package with sauna and massage?
D.) What are your nutritional habits?
E.) Are you aware that all sorts of personal training sessions are available?
F.) Do you want to fail miserably at fitness by not getting personal training sessions?
G.) How many personal training sessions would you like?

I told him my fitness goals were to look like Angelina Jolie with a really nice rack. But if he couldn't manage that, I said, then I would settle for being in good physical shape with more balanced muscle tone. I showed him my biceps (which are very nice), then showed him my triceps (which are terrible). But then he wouldn't stop giggling after I jiggled them for emphasis.

He ran through a series of arm, leg and ab exercises with me, which was rather tiring. Of course I never actually sweated. I just glowed. Ladies never sweat.

The gym itself is full of delicious eye-candy, but I came close to quitting anyway due to their horrible magazine selection: no trashy Cosmo, no trashier Weekly World News, no National Enquirer, no Star or any other gossip-rag. How on earth am I supposed to exercise, I ask you? Now I shall actually have to go out and buy the damn things.



But for now, I am attempting a regular workout schedule.... as long as I don't become a hulking, massive, orange-y chunk of manlike flesh like everyone else there.