Fitness Schmitness

The number that flashes up on the scales isn’t a pleasant one. 

“Traitor” I hiss under my breath.

I’m sure I detect a slight raise in the fitness instructor’s eyebrows, but the professional in him ensures the expression has disappeared almost as soon as I’ve seen it.  Eugh, I’m mortified but manage to smile sweetly and wait for him to say something cheesy like,

“Well, be glad!  That’s the last time you ever have to see that number on the scales”. 

To my surprise he doesn’t.  I think I’ve mistaken him for one of the numerous Weight Watchers leaders I’ve seen in my time.  Instead he heads straight to a weight conversion chart, points out an equally chubby number and tells me that I need to aim for that to start with, and after that we’ll reassess and give me another target which will get me a little closer to my healthy weight.  It comes to something when your fitness plan has to be broken down into stages.

Stage one: Reduce one’s self from lard arse to chunky bird.

Stage two: Further reduce one’s self from chunky bird to normal human being.

As he looks at me for confirmation that I’m happy with this two stage plan, I’m aware that I’m giving the poor guy the stink eye, and have to mentally pull myself into check.  I plaster the sweet smile back onto my face and nod my head slowly to confirm that I will accept his professional opinion. 

It’s a necessary evil to have a fitness plan composed for you when you join the gym.  Necessary because if I didn’t have one, I can pretty much guarantee that I will spend most of my time dawdling on the treadmill watching the beefcakes in the weights area pose at each other (and in many cases themselves).  I find these kind of men fascinating.  It’s like watching a nature documentary about primates.  When I watch them all I can hear is David Attenborough’s whispered tone;

The Alpha male moves forward, and shows his dominance by ceremoniously kissing his own guns.  It’s designed to show the other males his dominance, but here in their natural habitat, most of the males are vying for the position of Alpha.  A youngster, keen to make an impression on the group flexes his biceps....It’s a risky move...If the Alpha sees the display as a threat he may challenge him to a protein-shake drinking duel...The young male is lucky, the Alpha is too busy looking at himself in the mirror and parading in front of a female to notice.  He gets away with it, this time...

I begrudgingly follow Matt the fitness instructor to the bikes, as he’s told me this is the best thing to start on for my warm up session.  He tells me he wants me to do twelve minutes at around 70rpm to get me warmed up for “Fat Burning”.  He also tells me that the body stores energy in a variety of different ways, and that we (this is the “Royal We”) are keen to draw the energy that I need from my fat stores.  Usually at this point I would be affronted by the notion that I even had fat stores, but to be fair not only has he just weighed me, but the guy has eyes for crying out loud, so I can’t really object to what he’s saying.  The more he mentions my “reserves” though, the more I find it difficult to come back with a sarcastic self defence fat-girl quip.  I settle for making a mental note that if we crash landed on a desert island I would last a hell of a lot longer than he would, and in that particular scenario, my fat stores would be way more useful than his sinewy athletic frame.

Matt proceeds to take me from the bike, to the treadmill (it seems the guy now has the measure of me as he puts me on one that ensures I have my back to the beefcake chimps) and sets me a fifteen minute hill walking programme.  Annoyingly he still expects a conversation from me, which by this stage is starting to become more difficult.  Not just because I’m about as physically fit as a family sized tub of Utterly Butterly, but also because I have a stinking cold.  It’s taking all my effort not to accidentally breathe out through my nose and snot down myself, so I’m really praying he’ll stop asking me questions.  Bugger...I’m starting to get stitch.  I knew I shouldn’t have had such a big lunch.  Okay how do you get rid of stitch?  Remember - what did they tell us at school?  Erm, oh yes, lactic acid...not enough oxygen...erm...breathe!  That’s what I need to do!  Breathe in through the mouth and out through the nose...GAH!  No don’t do that! Snot central!  Sniff!  Sniff it up girl while he’s busy looking elsewhere! Oh great, well that was delightful, but I think I’ve managed to get away with it. 

He continues to drag me onto a cross trainer, and some kind of jogging machine that looks an awful lot like another cross trainer, but eventually my ordeal is over.  He’s been writing my new fitness plan down for me, and I can’t help but be delighted that he’s illustrated certain stretches on the programme card with little stick-person drawings...I think this is mainly because I like the idea of me being a stick person, rather than a blob person.  Maybe the man does have a heart after all...or he’s just rubbish at drawing...it matters not.

He hands me my card and tells me I’m ready.  At first I think this is his way of saying “we’re finished now” but I soon realise he means that I’m ready to get started on my first planned session...like...now.  I resist the urge to tell him where to shove his programme card, and instead thank him for his time before leaving very quickly so that he doesn’t have the opportunity to force me into another session.  Dentists and fitness instructors are a similar breed I think – there’s a certain amount of sadism in both of their natures.  But from the comfort of my sofa, writing this now, I suppose in both of those professions, a bit of tough love is necessary for people to face the things they don’t like, or are scared of doing.  I’m sure having him there to push me if I need it, will actually prove to be pretty useful.  Doesn’t mean I have to like it though okay?