Surviving My Free Personal Training Sessions (Barely)
So, apart from attending my usual gym classes, I get a few free personal training sessions as a perk for subscribing to the gym. Sounds great, right? A little bonus to help me get fit faster!
Well, I decided to fully utilize these sessions because, hey, free is free. But let me tell you, by the third session, I was questioning my life choices.
This time, it was a morning session. Thank goodness! Fewer people at the gym meant fewer witnesses to my suffering. Less audience to watch me make a fool of myself as I struggled through what can only be described as torture disguised as fitness.
My trainer, who I’m convinced might actually be a drill sergeant in disguise, only gave me four routines. Sounds easy, right? WRONG. Because this was circuit training. Three sets. 20 reps per routine. Do the math man, because I certainly couldn’t at the time. My brain was too busy trying to keep me alive.
We started with squats using a fitness tube. Oh, but not just any tube, this one had 10kg of resistance. So basically, it was like doing a BodyPump class, but instead of an instructor standing in front and demonstrating, this time, he was standing right next to my ear, counting loudly, “1, 2, 3…” up to 20, with zero mercy. I tried negotiating for a discount on the reps. He laughed. I wasn’t joking.
After that came lunges. With the same 10kg fitness tube. My legs were already protesting, but my trainer? He was THRIVING.
Then, burpees. With the tube. Why? Why would someone do this to another human being? By the time I got to the last exercise which is 90-degree leg raises while holding that cursed tube. I wasn’t even sure I was still on planet Earth. My soul had left my body. My arms? Jelly. My legs? Non-existent. My will to live? Questionable.
And the next day? Oh, the next day. If after a BodyPump class I couldn’t climb stairs, this time, I couldn’t even lift my arms. My biceps and triceps were in a full-blown civil war. They say muscle pain is just fat crying but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t just fat. This was my entire existence crying. Blood, veins, bones, and whatever else is inside me, all at war.
Saturday? My holy rest day. No gym. No suffering. Just me, my bed, and my trusty ointment, nursing my battered body back to life. And of course, spending the day with *My All, *which, at this point, might just be my heating pad. *wink*
Would I do it again? Probably. Because I’m stubborn. But first, I need at least two days to recover… or maybe three.
