We Shall Call Him Franz

So the last time I was writing about my trainer (poor soul), I mentioned that we should give him a name.  After many good ideas, I presented the list to him.  After quick deliberation, he chose a name, but I didn’t like his response, so I’m choosing one for him.  We will now call him Franz.

So, my latest story about Franz is that I really, officially think that he is trying to kill me.  During my last work out with him, after I was finished with most of my exercises and headed to the last one, he kept repeating, ‘Ooooh!  We have ten minutes left! You’re gonna have to do this for ten minutes!  You’re gonna hate me!’  Too late, Franz.  I already do.

The  last thing Franz wanted me to do was pick up a 60lb sand bag, and walk it down the track, and back.  When I got back to the beginning, I was to put the bag down, and pick up a kettle bell in each hand.  Each one weighed about 40lbs.  My first trip down the track with the bag I thought, “I used to carry this weight around on me every single day of my life”.  My first trip down the track with the kettle bells I thought “Holy shit, I used to carry THIS weight around on me every single day of my life”.

My OMG moments were rudely interrupted by Franz telling me to stand up straight.  Here’s the thing- When you were 85lbs heavier, you’re used to holding your body weight in a certain way.  Standing up straight to me, is actually leaning back in the normal world.  When Franz tried to get me to stand straight, it felt like I was leaning forward.  Add 60-80 pounds of weights, and I am like a hobbling old woman.  I don’t even know how any of this makes sense because currently, I feel like I am just leaning forward all the time.  I think I need a posture brace. That should work out well while I’m trying to hop, squat, and lift at the gym.

Anyways, I did this for ten whole minutes, just like Franz threatened.  When I was done, I dropped the weights, and put myself back in that happy place thinking, “I used to carry that.  I USED to.  Not anymore.”

 GET. OUT. AND. WUN.

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That Time A High School Child Watched Me Work Out

So let me start off by saying that I am SICK AND TIRED of not being able to go to the gym, and work out with my trainer.  Physical Therapy has been ridiculously helpful for my shoulder injury, but I feel like a waste of space without my routine.  On Tuesday, at my PT appointment, I asked about heading back to work with my trainer, and the staff at the office collaboratively put together some ideas of things for me to do without further hurting myself.

On Wednesday, I was back at it.  After PT on Tuesday, I immediately messaged my OLD trainer (I’mmmmmm BAAAAAACKKKK!!!) and told him what I could and couldn’t do.  He was on board, and we scheduled my first day back with him, at a new facility.

I was freaking petrified of starting again, and honestly, I should have believed my fear.  It was as if I had never been before in my whole life.  So this new facility is a great space and like I described in a previous post, it was like an entire place made up like ‘The Green’, at my gym. Fortunately for everyone on planet earth, only two people were working out, while I was there.  Unfortunately for me, they were both innocent children (Presumably, High Schoolers).  I quickly got into Nanny Mode, and stifled my swears.

The very first thing the devil of a personal trainer I have wanted me to do, was jump up onto a block.  Jump.  I don’t jump.  Let’s not forget, that I may be skinnier, but I’m not any more athletic.  In fact, I still have all that BODY left hanging around (Picture E.T.), so jumping seems completely out of my reach.  Never mind the fact that I have SLS (self diagnosed and named Short Leg Syndrome), and he wanted me to jump on a block half my height. After much complaining, his alternative for me was to ‘long’ jump down the track.  I basically fucking hopped.  I was completely self conscience, made fun of how far my distance was, and asked him to describe my jiggle upon landing.   The whole time, one of the poor, innocent, children WATCHED and LISTENED (and smirked- little shit).  I felt totally ridiculous, totally out of shape, and totally weak.

Those kids got the show of their life.  I was this hot mess of a prematurely elderly bodied woman in her mid-thirties, struggling to breath, and move, who was threatening her trainers existence.  Maybe they will use this live comedy show as motivation to never stop what they are doing, and to continue to work hard at the gym.  That’s all I can ask for, really.

So, jumps, kettle bell lifts, step ups, sit and stand shit, sled pushing, and basically humping air from a laying position (I think I should make a video of this move to post on here) and I was done.  It was only thirty minutes of pure hell, and sweaty eyeballs (yes.), but I was done.  I landed on the floor of the gym, throat and chest burning, and all I could think was, ‘I feel like I’ve never done this before in my life’.

I’ll be back next week.

P.S. My text to my trainer after my session was not an apology for threatening his life.  Instead, it was me telling him he missed me threatening his life.  He responded saying that he agreed, and I was one of a kind.  I think he loves me. ❤

P.P.S. My body hurt so badly that my arm was sore while stirring dinner.

Redemption Is Short Lived (The Volleyball Edition) **HOW DID THIS NOT POST?!**

Writer’s Note- What the hell??  How did this not post?  Well, scroll on back through Fat Girl Wunning, and refresh your memory of my career as a volleyball player.  Then, come back, and read this final entry about my team.

 

I bet you all know where this is going.

Last Wednesday was our final night for summer volleyball, 2017.  Somehow, my team made it to the playoffs.  I mean, all we really had to do was be one of the top 10 out of twelve teams, but still.  We made it.

Unfortunately, playoffs just happened to land on the worst day ever.  Two of our best  team members would be up in the air, on a plane, flying to Europe.  Another one of our badass players would be vacationing with his family at a beach.  So far, already no good.  Add in that the week prior we lost all four games due to complete shit playing, and we had a recipe for failure, for playoffs.

It was best out of three.  If you won, you moved on.  If you lost, you were obviously out.  Which mean, no trophy full of Harpoon beer, for you.

Games start at 6:30 pm.  The league refs made a few announcements, and we were off to the courts.  The games begin, and keeping right on par with the last few weeks of the season, we suck.  Balls drop.  Balls are being hit directly out of bounds.  No one calls the ball, and bodies hit.  It was a disaster.  All we really could do, was laugh.  I mean, I spent the time sideline coaching, and then freaking out on the court, but really what’s new?

Have I mentioned that the playoff games means a photographer is there to capture the teams, in all their glory?  Yeah…  First of all, no glory was happening with team Block Party.  Secondly, while standing next to him while I was sideline coaching, I may have told him to walk away from me because otherwise he was going to go deaf, listening to me scream.

It’s amazing how even on the last night of the season, I still get flustered when I’m out of rotation, and then realize I have to go back in and serve.  But here I was.  It was my turn to serve, during the second game, and it really truly didn’t matter because we were obviously losing.  All of a sudden I hear, ‘Look good for the photographer!’ and I ask, ‘Where is he?!?’

Right.Next.To.Me.  Somehow I didn’t notice him.  Anyways, I do my routine of digging my feet into the sand, relaxing my body, twirling the ball in my hand (all of this makes me look like I know what I’m doing), I swing my arm and I hit the ball over the net.  I immediately turn to the photographer and say, ‘If it’s ugly, delete it!’.  He promised it wasn’t ugly.

So let’s just fast forward.  Not too far though… like fast forward to 6:55 (remember, the games started at 6:30).  We’re out.  We have lost two games.  Miserable.  We packed up our shit, and said our final good-byes to each other.  Someone piped up and asked, ‘Anyone want to go for a beer?’ and the whole team responded the same way… groaning and sadly saying, ‘no…’.

Who would want to celebrate that kind of end to an otherwise decent season?  Meh.

 

 

BTW- I’m so very thankful that Volleyball Season is over because now I can get a pedicure without the sand destroying it! #yayforlittlethings

 

Do You Have Five Minutes?

It’s Thursday night.  I have completed two sessions with my new trainer, and I’m laying on my couch recuperating.  My phone buzzes and it says that I have a text from my old trainer.

‘How was the first week?’ he asks.

‘Well, I didn’t swear’ I answered.

After a few back and forth messages about my new trainers training technique, he asks what I am doing on Friday morning.  I tell him I’m going to visit my grandparents…but why???

‘I wanted to see if you could meet me at a gym.  I found a place where I can train people.  I chose my favorite five clients, and you made the list.’

How is that even possible?  I am the worst to him.  I mean, I threaten his life on a daily basis!  Oh well… I MADE THE LIST!!  Unfortunately, this doesn’t change the fact that I can’t go see the gym, but I am excited at the prospect of training with him again (guess I should have held my breath after all!!).

So, it’s Friday morning, and I place a mobile Starbucks order, hop in my car, and head down the street to grab my espresso.  I get out of the car, and walk with my head down, staring at my phone.  All of a sudden I hear, ‘Ohhh… I thought you were going to see your grandparents.  That’s why you couldn’t meet up with me’!  I look up, and see my old trainer.  I’m completely startled.  This is the equivalent to seeing a teacher outside of school.  It’s just not supposed to happen.

I pull myself together, and start laughing and telling him that I am just grabbing my coffee, and headed to see my grandparents.  He asks if I have five minutes to check out the gym, and before I can resist, he pulls me down the sidewalk.

We walk into this space full of VERY athletic looking people.  Women are seamlessly puling themselves up on bars. People are lifting weights as if they were picking up feathers.  Most of the space is what the ‘Green’ looks like at the gym.  Remember the ‘green’?  The space in the gym that I hate the most?  This place was 100% ‘green’ area.

My trainer explains that he can train me here, and he can do it the way he really wants to.  ‘You’re going to transform’ he says.

All I can think about are all the ways I’ll picture hurting him, while training here.

#newbeginnings

 

 

Newbie.

It’s the first week after my trainer left the gym, and I am starting with someone new.  I have seen this new trainer around the gym, and I didn’t have anything good or bad to say about him, I just didn’t know him.  When he was assigned to take me over as a client, I did the nice thing, and prepared him for my vulgar language and piss poor attitude.

Our first real conversation was while I was walking on the treadmill.  He came up to me and tried to have a normal conversation.  He was telling me about how he went to Boston with his family, and I was desperately trying to listen, I swear.  It was hard.  I had no interest in the conversation, and I immediately decided we had nothing in common.   This just wasn’t going to work.

I message my old trainer, and tell him ‘I can’t do it’.  He knows exactly what I’m talking about, and says, ‘Yes I can, just laugh at him.  It’s what I used to do.’  Oh, ok.

My first day of training comes, and we did things a little differently than I was used to.  I hated 90% of the exercises, but I didn’t complain.  In fact, I didn’t even swear the whole time.  By the end of my session, my arms were killing me, my shoulders were throbbing, and my midsection was on fire.  That’s when he said, ‘Let’s do Battle Ropes’.  He seriously must be on crack.  I was near tears, but I sucked it the fuck up, didn’t complain, and grabbed the ends of the ropes with both hands.  I shook those things as hard as I could, for as long as I could.  It was seriously like 20 seconds.  I stopped.  Ten seconds later, I do it again.

I really felt weak, until a guy turned to me and said, I can’t even do that for twelve seconds.  I know he was just saying that because he was head to toe muscle, had been working out for an hour without breaking a sweat, and was confident enough to wear man-capris.  He can battle rope with the best of them, I know it.  …but deep down, I appreciated it.

By the end of the week, after I completed both upper body and lower body murder day, I appreciated my new trainer a little more.  I don’t think I’ll be able to joke with him like I did my last trainer, or slap his arm, but I’ll get a good work out and thats what counts… I guess.

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This shirt says the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Out With The Old?

So, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve written, and really the only reason why, is because NOTHING funny has happened to me.  I go to the gym, I work, I come home.  I feel like I spend most of my time at the grocery store, or Target.  Sometimes I let myself get into a mundane routine, which can have its good parts, but it really just creates a little bubble around me.  The bubble always seems to end up popping in the most inconvenient way.  Like, I have NO control over what will change, or how it will change, or when it will change.

This bubble was no different.

It’s an ordinary Monday and I am at the gym, sweating it out to the WORST MUSIC EVER, on the treadmill.  I’m minding my own business, with my headphones on, and Netflix desperately trying to drown the noise of the 90’s pop blaring from the gym speakers.  All of a sudden, like the stealth ninja he is, my trainer sneaks up on me and props himself up on the treadmill to my left.  He says, ‘So… I have to talk to you.’  Immediately, I knew something was bad.  It was off.  I said, ‘Oh God, what?  What’s the bad news??’  He responds, ‘What?  Maybe its not bad news!’  to which I say, ‘Obviously it is…’

‘I’m leaving the gym’ he says.

No shit.  Bad news.  Seven years at this gym, and equally as many trainers.  This time I was super bummed though.  He seems to just get me.  He lets me be who I am, threatening his life and all, and he still puts up with me.  Yet, obviously he’s leaving the gym, and messing up my routine, because like usual, my perfect ‘going well please don’t change’ bubble, has burst.  Changes throw me for a loop.  I hate them.

Anyways, he then word vomits ‘Thursday is our last session together’.  Oh cool.  Ok, bye.

The next day I went for Upper Body Murder Day, and we worked out just as hard, if not harder, than we had before.  On Thursday I went for Lower Body Murder Day, and he basically tortured me.  I know that it was payback for what I’ve put him through.  We set up my next weeks training with a new (already don’t like him) trainer, and we hug goodbye.

Before I leave I say, ‘What the fuck… this sucks.  I’d pay you.  Under the table… just train me outside of here!’

I won’t hold my breath.