The Trainer and the Trainee

Bear with me. I have to brag. If you absolutely can't stand it, well, turn away now.

I weighed in today, and I was down 2.4 pounds from last week! This is with all my girlie water retention and even a weak moment at work today when I found banana-nut bread with cream cheese frosting in the staff room. Yes, I had a small piece. It was wonderful.

G. the Meanie credits all the running he's making me do, and I suppose he's right. I'm still not loving the running, but he assures me that as the weight comes off, it will get easier. Being lighter equals fewer shin splints. Yay. I could really use a break from the shin splints.

We've moved out of the introduction phase, through the "OH. MY. GOD. WHO ARE YOU TO MAKE ME RUN?!?" phase, and now I feel really comfortable working with G. He's probably the best of the three trainers I've worked with. Don't tell him I said that. It would go to his head. Still--B the Sadist never let me eat anything like olive oil or avocado--he outlawed feta cheese, for goodness sake!--and C. was sweet but it was sort of easy to just listen to her advice and then go do my own thing. G. acknowledges that I need my healthy fats, but doesn't let me get away with anything. I answer to him on my cardio, and if he's in the gym when I'm on that treadmill, I can count on him coming over to check on me.

This is a guy who keeps a portfolio with before and after pictures of all of his former clients. Success is the only option, here.

Today, I was climbing on board one particularly nasty torture device piece of equipment to do some leg-lifts. G. said, "I wonder...I wonder if all these people are looking over here and getting jealous that you get to work with me, because of all the fun we're having." I withheld my unladylike inclination to snort, and just scoffed instead. "Uh-huh. Having a BLAST!"

In our first few sessions, G. would ask stuff like, "How do you like this exercise?" or "How did you like today's routine?" I'd politely nod and say, "Yeah. Good workout!"

We're past that formality now. My stock answer is usually something along the lines of, "I don't," or, "Hurts like hell." But he knows that I'll do the exercise--he's learned now that I am not a quitter...even if I do whine a lot.

We're coming up on one year from the day I walked up to the trainer's desk and said to B. the Sadist, "I need some help." I weighed 221.8 pounds. I couldn't run, I couldn't do a pushup. My muscles were nonexistent and my body fat was out of control.

Today, I weighed the lowest I've weighed in at least five years--194 pounds. A couple pounds more, and I'm at 30 total. Every pound that comes off means one less shin splint, more flexibility, cuter clothes, a healthier me. I fully expect to see an 8 in the tens spot in another week or two. Suddenly, 180 pounds doesn't seem so far away.