My thighs are screaming the agonized scream of worn-out, terrified muscles. "Please!!" they're begging me. "Don't torture us anymore!!" They're ready to secceed from my brain and press charges against B., the muscle-bound Master Trainer who put them through this hell.
Yes, my friends, today I met with my trainer for the 2nd time.
He took me through several strength-building exercises. We started with squats. I did them with a five-pound dumbbell in each hand, which, upon straightening my legs and finally tucking my substantial butt back in (gah, is there anything more embarassing that sticking that thing out?) I would raise above my head.
Next, he showed me an exercise in which I step up on a platform, about 10-12 inches off the floor, completely straightening my leg, going back down, and bouncing back up. "Try to find a rhythm to this one," he suggested.
"Go to hell!!!" my thighs replied. My brain is more diplomatic. It realizes that this is good for me.
Next he led me over to a machine, where I would do some lateral presses or some such thing. My thighs expressed their glee when they saw that this was a sit-down exercise. My arms were too stupid to know any better.
A few minutes later, the arms had joined the chorus. "Mutiny! For the love of God, MUTINY!!!"
But B. wasn't finished with me. Nope, next we had to do some rowing motions for my back. My back didn't seem to mind, and even my arms and thighs simmered down for a few minutes. Finally, we walked back to a corner of the weight area. On our way, B. grabbed, one-handed, a 20-pound dumbbell. Let me add here that for me to lift it, it takes both hands and a deep breath.
My thighs started laughing at my arms as I started the bicep curls. By the end of my third set, B. was doing a lot of spotting. I was dripping sweat and swigging water. B. suggested we do some stretches. I reminded him that I am pretty much the least flexible person on the planet. Even as a 12-year-old, I could never touch my toes without bending my knees (they used to test us in junior high PE, and it was always embarassing).
"We'll work on that," he replied with the confidence of a Master Trainer. My arms and thighs started to weep.
The stretches were actually pretty easy in comparison to the rest of the torture...er, workout. And then, miraculously, we were done. I had made it through a 45-minute, butt-kicking workout with a Master Trainer, without embarassing myself. He told me to do 35 minutes of cardio, which I slogged through at a slower-than-usual pace.
The best news of all, though? I've already lost 1.6 pounds, in less than a week. I hope, when I weigh again on Friday, to have reached a full 2 pounds.
My thighs are just going to have to put on their big girl panties and deal with it. I'm on a roll!
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