Back in 2001, soon after I’d recovered from a recent bout of bronchitis, my daughter said, “Mom, let’s go rock climbing.”
“I…I don’t think so.” My heart quickened at the mere thought of scaling anything slightly vertical. “Perhaps we’ll go when I get a little stronger.”
Like in the year 2065.
Bronchitis had left me miserably out of shape. My muscles felt as if they had developed Alzheimer’s. Even the task of combing my hair seemed difficult. If I was to get back into shape I would need some serious help, so I called the gym near my house and booked 12 sessions with a personal trainer.
The trainer, Marlene, looked like the quintessential California girl as she introduced herself at my kick-off workout. Petite, with long blonde hair, she was a karate instructor and mother of three, with a Pepsodent smile. So far, so good, I thought. But then she began getting personal – asking about my goals, my eating habits, my weight, and my lifestyle.
I sputtered as I debated telling the truth, and then I told her that I weighed 20 pounds less than I did, that ice cream, chocolate and peanut butter never touched my lips, and, with my fingers crossed behind my back, I declared I didn’t care if I lost weight – I just wanted to be strong enough to climb rocks. What? I should tell her my real goal was to be able brush my hair without needing a nap to recuperate?
It didn’t matter, I don’t think she believed a word I said.
Still smiling that golden smile, Marlene measured my arms, legs, back, bust and waist – all those ghastly inches! She also measured my fat content. The results weren’t pretty. It wasn’t her fault that my fat content exceeded FDA limits, but she was the messenger and I, of course, wanted to shoot the messenger.
But I didn’t have time to do so because she ushered me into a racquetball court. Within seconds she had me sucking my bellybutton into my backbone. “We’re going to develop your core strength,” she said. I struggled to stand straight, keep my tummy sucked, my gluts tightened and tucked…oh, yeah…while breathing. Just when I reached my limit, Marlene said, “Pull that stomach in further. You can do it.”
My hopes of a snap-your-fingers-easy workout were dashed. In less than a minute, sweet Marlene had gone from the Smiler to the Devil. What had I gotten myself into?
The next workout day began with me thinking I could just hop out of bed, get dressed and zoom over to the gym. WRONG. There was no hopping and no zooming. There was hobbling and shuffling. I became aware of muscles I’d only heard talked about on the science channel. When I struggled up the gym stairs, the Devil was at the top grinning at me. “I feel your pain,” she said as she led me into the weight room. I could feel the tears and the begging begin to well up but I stuffed them down. I had a pretty good idea how she’d handle crybabies.
By the end of Week Two, my muscles were angst-ridden. I had toasted my quadriceps, gluteus maximus, petoralis, biceps/triceps, brachii, deltoids, trapezoids, latissimus dorsi and my rippling six-pack. I took naps in the morning, naps in the afternoon and looked forward to bedtime while still eating dinner. I had to learn a new way to shampoo my hair – one that didn’t require arms. I was in hell…and Marlene was Beelzebub.
During Week Three, I stopped complaining to my friends, mainly because they stopped listening. But for some reason I kept showing up.
Then one morning I woke feeling different. I had turned down a scrumptious dessert the night before. I’d also gotten a good night’s sleep and had awakened early enough to down a pre-workout protein shake. Marlene’s eyebrows rose in shock when I took the stairs two at a time. I greeted her with enthusiasm, ready for the workout and her sea-blue eyes sparkled with pride. Later when she told me to use my core strength and suction my bellybutton to my spine, balance on one foot, stretch my other leg up and out in front of me while pumping five more pounds of iron…
What was a girl to do?… I did it without begging for mercy, without crying for my mommy. I even powered through an extra set.
Just because I could.
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for the Record-Bee. To contact her, email lucywgtd@gmail.com
