Previous post from my past life

(2/27/06)

My first trainer was a tall, skinny man single, supposedly straight and in his mid-40’s. I think his name was Michael? His claim as a trainer was the Miss USA system as a whole. Seriously, he had an entire room with no wall space showing through the framed, signed Miss USA contestant head shots – Ali Landry among them. And this was pre-“Doritos chick.” He believed in running. He wanted me to do 1.5 hours of cardio a day and weight training with 3 or 5-lb weights only 2-3 days a week. Apparently, to him skinny was better.

My second trainer was a Mr. Body Builder-type contestant. The bulkiest black dude in Atlanta. Derrick. So nice, though. But damn he was strict. He had me on a chicken-broccoli-rice, 6 times a day diet. Shit you not. It didn’t happen. I almost became an anorexic over it. I literally couldn’t force another bite of dry, unsalted or herbed chicken into my mouth. I threatened to hurl in my parents’ car on our family trip to Denver 2 weeks before the pageant if they force-fed me one more strain of rice.

I guess my parents were as much of a pain as my trainer. But he would push me hard. I bench-pressed with the big boys, then I would throw up a little in a nearby trashcan and he’d have me right back down with the bar above my head. I cried out of sheer exertion pretty much every session, which was only once a week for a couple months, then 3 times a week and the last 2 weeks of training before the pageant EVERY SINGLE DAY. PS – I was jacked, though. Quite hot if I do say so myself, and quite ripped.

But it’s no wonder I’ve stayed away from the gym and trainers for so long.

But signing up for my new gym, I received the obligatory sales pitch of a training session. We give you one free because it’s good for you; meanwhile, the trainer shoves a sales pitch down your throat while you’re too red-faced and out of breathe to argue.

Enter Frankie. My new trainer. Well, for my free session. He starts me out on the treadmill. Keep in mind that I haven’t been in a gym or even run around the block for pretty much a full year or more. He stands, with Starbucks in hand, on the treadmill next to me and occasionally jacks up my speed as he plays the “get to know you” game. Nice enough guy and quite cute, so I’m slightly embarrassed when after 20 minutes I want to puke. (Turns out I was only on for 10 minutes, but man it felt like 20).

We move onto some free weights, machines, lunges etc. At one point all the blood rushed to my face and I had to sit – too dizzy. As I was doing leg lifts, my pants slid from my ankles down to my knees and revealed the legs that hadn’t been shaved in 5 days. And as we finish, I stop talking and hold my breathe for a moment making sure I don’t lose my granola bar of a breakfast in the middle of the floor.

Turns out he’s a nice guy. Didn’t push me too hard, except for the muscle relaxers required to finish out my day today. But maybe I could do every other week for an apparent $100 a session. Damn the sales pitch. And I didn’t even realize I was getting one.