My latest attempt to de-jiggle comes in the form of a pint-sized pocket rocket who claims to be a personal trainer but, in my opinion, is actually a highly qualified practitioner of jedi mind tricks. You see, not only has she managed to get my wobbly butt and withering calves (not being able to run or wear heels will do that to a girl) to the gym bright and early on a Monday morning but she has managed to make me see wine o' clock as the enemy (Re-read that last sentence if you think you imagined it...) Basically, I'm starting to equate my favourite Sauvignon Blanc with lunges, squats and other forms of legal torture required to undo the calorie consumption.
Bearing in mind that I gave my partner in crime at the gym the nickname of 'The Drill Sergeant' a while back (courtesy of the fact that she single-handedly managed to take me from a coughing, spluttering, sweaty mess who couldn't run 3km's to a half-marathon enthusiast in just six months), when I made the decision to get a personal trainer I thought: "How tough can it be?"
Well, 48 hours after my first session, as I tried not to pass out or toss my cookies midway through the second session, I came to the realisation that personal training was gonna be a little more challenging than I'd initially thought and perhaps, the best way to soldier forward was to rope The Drill Sergeant in... thankfully, my dear friend was only too happy to assist. I think that 'happy' was downgraded to a 'willing' judging by the text message I got from her the day after our first joint session, which pretty much described exactly how I'd felt the week before – basically, every movement (walking, sitting, lying down) felt like I was being stabbed my a swarm of sword yielding ninja mice.
The strange thing is that I seem to enjoy being beaten into submission and I find myself repeating 'no pain, no gain' to myself as I hop around my room on one leg trying to put my skinny jeans on with the arm with the most range of movement.
So, it looks like I'm gonna see this thing through, which means that...
If you find yourself with nothing to do on a Monday or Wednesday morning around 7am and happen to frequent the Sunninghill Virgin Active, then you may just witness the hour-long comedy session that is The Drill Sergeant and I being put through our paces. We're pretty good at the basic stuff, so not much entertainment value there, but when medicine balls, bosu balls, steps and kettle bells make an appearance that's where the situational comedy comes in.
"You want me to do what?" [insert demonstration by personal trainer here] "Um, okay, so do I step up into a lunge and flick the kettle bell or do I swing the kettle bell and then lunge?" [insert second demonstration of same movement by personal trainer] "Okay, I think I've got it..." [said while sticking bum out and thinking there's no way this thing is only 8kgs] "How's that?"
Personal Trainer: "Sho! You really weren't kidding when you said co-ord wasn't one of your gifts."
True story.
So, while I wouldn't advise being within throwing distance of me when I have a kettle bell in hand, I am finding that I feel this huge sense of accomplishment when The Drill Sergeant and I complete a session. The fact that getting in and out of the shower some mornings feels like a carefully planned military operation seems a small price to pay for a firm butt and the annihilation of the bat wings that I currently call triceps. And, if I manage to pick up some extra co-ord along the way – that's just a bonus!
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