Ladies and gentlemen (at least the ones who endure my talk about boobs and periods long enough to still be hanging around)-
I would like to introduce you to my new workout partner.
Whipping my butt into shape consists of a whole new workout regimen for me, focused on taking advantage of my YMCA membership. Intense cardio (hence my newest affliction and challenge- Boot Camp and the evil-iptical, along with running along side my brothers), light cardio (water aerobics and walking with Tricky Nikki), and the piece de resistance of the YMCA experience- WEIGHT TRAINING.
This is not for the faint of heart, folks. Lifting weights is far tougher than I could ever have imagined.
Back in the days of my high school career, I remember spending a semester in the weight room. I’m pretty sure it was mandatory, but during my brief stint in the weight room at DHS I learned that I don’t like weight lifting. Boys were not the best audience to have around while I was trying to eek out bicep curls with the girlie weights. And that had tainted my view of ever winning the Miss Muscles of the Universe competition.
Now that I am on the (dare I say) final leg of my journey to get to goal- losing the weight, cause it’s a whole other ball of wax keeping the weight off, but I’m tackling one mountain at a time- I understand what my half schnockered phys. ed. instructor was telling me back in 1994.
So we are in that “first date” phase of our new partnership- learning each other’s routines. Ok, he already knows his routine. I’m the one who is 20 years behind. I should have paid better attention in the high school weight room instead of fixing my hair in the mirror the whole period…
One fantastic thing about McMuscles is his willingness to teach. And instruct. You can totally tell he’s married by his comments. Today he said “Not that what you are doing is wrong, but you might try it this way…” Mrs. McMuscles has trained him well!
Now, I know that some women may be uncomfortable working with a male partner. For me, having been raised in a house with 2 older brothers, and being prone to competitiveness in all things, working with McMuscles doesn’t scare me at all. In fact, I think I would work less hard if I had a female trainer. I’d pull the “we are bonded in sisterhood” card. No such moves can be made with this guy. My goal is to work my body like I never knew possible. And I think it’s gonna pay off in the end.
For the most part, I am learning that the testosterone filled side of the room is where I need to be. The side that grunts and sweats and suffers for 15 reps and then gets a drink of water. (Seriously. I love it.) Most importantly, it’s where I am increasing my muscle mass so that I burn fat quickly. The more muscle you have, the faster the flabby parts melt away. And McMuscles is teaching me good form, exposing me to diverse routines and machines, and showing me that there is no reason for women to steer clear of the “big boy” weights.
The first night of working out with McMuscles, we worked on a machine that does some super intense leg presses. You lay down on the seat with your legs up in the air, and push a massive plate up with your feet. He told me that lots of women avoid that machine, but it’s a great “compound” exercise, meaning that it works several groups of muscles at the same time, instead of isolating one muscle- like a tricep. (See? I listen to people sometimes…) This compound exercise works hammys, calves, glutes, and a bunch of other leg muscles. The trick is to lower and raise the big plate type thing by bending your knees to your chest.
Yep, to my chest, which sticks 2 feet out from the rest of my body. Especially in my minimizing exercise bra.
So I had to try not to snicker as I am boob bouncing off my knees in front of my new trainer.
By then, I was just beside myself, desperately trying to hold my laughter inside, at the risk of giggling till I peed in my Poise. And I sat down. The pink elephant in the room made a mighty roar.
Even as I scooted up to the proper spot on the machine, the girls kept me a foot away from being where I needed to be. It was like I was hugging watermelons and trying to get to the machine.
“I’m sure you see my problem here…”
Poor McMuscles. I’m sure he was questioning what he was really getting himself into with me. Out of respect, I didn’t look him in the eye, just became very clinical about our predicament.
“So I can do this…” shoving the boobs under the pad and into my stomach, “or I can do this…” laying them on top and hiding my face. “Suggestions?”
(It probably didn’t help matters that I was wearing a tshirt that said “Jesus loves you, but I’m his favorite” which was laying out on top of the machine…)
At that moment, I was kinda thankful my eyeballs were buried in my mammaries. I couldn’t see if he was embarrassed or shocked or amused. I just heard his response.