I have a love-hate relationship with my trainer.
Let me start by saying that he’s 6’4″, weighs about 275 and is perfectly proportioned without being muscle-bound.
Although I’ve been training with him some three or four months, I have no idea what his face looks like, because the rest of him’s so good I really never get past his neck.
A strict training regimen means protein-rich meals and two to four hours of workout a day (his, not mine, are you kidding?) and, to illustrate a discussion about shaping his body, he showed me a recent photo his own trainer took of him, shirtless.
Oh. My. God.
Only 12% body fat. Ripped. It was so hot–like porn–I had to avert my eyes. It was like looking at your younger brother naked. Even though he was wearing pants. And my brother looks nothing like that.
Yes, my trainer is seriously built.
Fortunately, he’s fully clothed during our sessions. Still, I have to force myself to stay focused on the workout and not his body so I don’t trip over a weight or something. The floor is just littered with weights and bands; a girl has to concentrate and and that’s even more critical in our senior years.
The other day he demonstrated a squat that ended with a glute contraction to isolate the muscle.
“Watch my butt,” he commanded.
“Ok,” I laughed. “But really, couldn’t I watch your abs instead?”
Focus, Carol, will ya?
(I made the mistake of Googling “naked trainer” to find an image for this post. Well, maybe it wasn’t a mistake, after all.)
My left lower back loves twerking. That’s what I call it, although it bears no resemblance to anything Miley Cyrus does. It’s mostly when I do some exercise with my back instead of my legs. Maybe I mean tweaking. Luckily, this trainer has some magic way of working it when I screw it up so that I leave the gym pain-free. It’s instant magic: he’s the Back Whisperer.
And no, it’s not true that I use my back on purpose so he can bend over my prone body and stretch me out on the long table. And roll my back. Not true at all.
I’ve often thought trainers should pay ME for the entertainment value I provide. I give him s hit and he gives it right back to me. One day he was late and I told him I couldn’t stay more than 20 minutes. “20 pushups!” he boomed. Down I went.
“I’m only kidding,” he said. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Balance at this age ain’t fun and when you’re 62 and your trainer is 26, well, he comes up with exercises that one can only do when one is 26 and fit. From time to time I have to adjust his thinking. It goes like this:
“Stand on this ball with one leg and squat.”
Setting limits. Pretty effective. “Just say no!”
It is, however, quite entertaining to watch him toss 50 lb weights around like they were made of styrofoam. All I can do is laugh. I can barely lift one and he’s tossing them around like they weighed nothing.
Things not to say to your trainer–I always learn these the hard way:
“This feels easier than it did last week.”
Trainer walks away and returns with 20 more pounds which he then adds to the bar.
“Geez,” I protest. ” I just wanted to acknowledge progress, not kill myself.”
I pray more when I train with Robin than I ever did with any other trainer. Seriously.
“Mother of God!” “Hail Mary!”
I also do Lamaze breathing—and I’ve never had a child.
These wandering thoughts come to mind because I’m preparing to reacquaint myself with the gym tomorrow.
After almost 4 weeks off.
Meanwhile….if you have a trainer story, I want to hear it. Especially if you’re a midlife woman. Tell!