Mon, 02 Nov 2009 3:03p.m.
Last Thursday I met Vann, my Reactiv8 personal trainer. I was excited about the prospect of my hotness adventure, but I knew it was going to be hard from the get-go.
Accordingly, I had prepared myself to be weighed and poked and prodded and pinched and generally interrogated by a perfect stranger. That was fine. I had no problem with that. I’m a generally transparent kinda gal who is perfectly happy telling a stranger what she has for breakfast every morning. However, I wasn’t at all prepared for that very same stranger, as nice as he was, to ask me to take my shirt off for him. I might be fairly transparent, but I’m not that transparent! I can’t even swim at the beach in just a bikini, let alone stand partially undressed in front of a strange man! So as much as I tried to ooze confidence and size-eight-ness and I-do-this-kinda-thing-all-the-time-ness, all I could think was OH MY GOSH I AM A FAT PASTY-WHITE WHALE STANDING PARTIALLY NAKED IN FRONT OF A MAN WHO HAS MUSCLES ON TOP OF HIS MUSCLES. I WISH THERE WAS A SMALL HOLE NEARBY SO I CRAWL INTO IT AND DIE OF EMBRASSMENT ALONE. EXCEPT I’M SO FAT I PROBABLY WOULDN’T FIT INTO IT.
I don’t know why he couldn’t measure me through my tshirt. Mind you, I suppose I need all the millimetres I can get. And so the measuring began. Vann wrapped the tape measure around my girth multiple times, which really didn’t make me feel remotely hot. He went down the list. “Arm. Blah blah centimetres. Thigh. Blah blah centimetres. Hips. Blah blah metres. Chest. .. Oh wait. You’re a girl. I don’t need to measure your chest.” Em.Bar.Rass.Ment.
Then he did a pinch test on my flab. I naturally assumed that he’d choose to flab-test my flabby areas. Think thighs or belly. No. Firstly he chose my arm. Now, I don’t actually think that’s very fair. Arms are always a wee bit flabby and hangydowny. They’re supposed to be hangydowny. (Aren’t they?) Admittedly, mine probably have more than their fair share of hangydowniness, but, seriously, how many people actually have totally toned arms? That’s right – not many, if any.
Secondly, he chose my back. Hang on, my back? And we’re talking along-my-spine-under-my-bra-clasp back here, not muffins-hanging-over-the-back-of-your-pants back. What a way to make a semi-overweight chick feel morbidly obese. Pinch test the boniest part of her body. Thanks a lot.
Next came the fitness test. Thank the good Lord that he didn’t make me run. I’m not sure what I would’ve said if he’d even suggested it. He made me row instead.
Rowing’s fine: I can sit down and watch the telly while I’m doing it. But as I rowed to my heart’s content, all the while feeling comfortable and pleasantly fit, I was blissfully, but probably naively, unaware of what the next 12 minutes and 40 seconds of my life was going to entail.
“I want you to do 15 standing jumps onto this here box, followed by 15 burpies with girl pushups in the middle, then 15 squats with your butt pointing out and your toes pointing out and at the lowest point your thighs being parallel to the floor, then 15 throw-this-heavy-ass-ball-with-all-your-might-onto-the-floor-and-catch-it-agains.
Then 10 of each all over again. Then five of each all over again. As fast as is humanly possible. You’re going to do this again in four weeks. GO!”
Oh dear God.
Burpies are what Satan makes the people in Hell do all day long. “Jump down to the ground in a crouching position. Jump your legs out behind you so you’re in a push-up position, then do a push-up. (If I was awesome enough I would’ve done awesome man push-ups. I am a weak woman so had to put my knees on the ground.) Jump your legs back to a crouching position. Jump up as high as you can and clap your hands. Now 14 more.”
The most I could do in a row without stopping for a breather was two. And some of them I had to repeat because I was so bad at them.
Vann: “Were you happy with that one, Erin?”
Me: “Well *pant* I’m going to guess you weren’t so howzabout I just do it again?”
Vann: “Good choice.”
My arms ached. My thighs ached. The arches of my feet ached, for crying out loud. And I got carpet burn on my knees. Blood and everything. I cannot burp to save myself.
The box jumps were fine. The squats were fine. The throwing the ball onto the ground and catching it again was fine. When the burpies came around again I thought I was going to die.
After 12 minutes and 40 seconds this sheer hell was over. As Vann enthusiastically led the way back up the stairs to the office I could barely lift my legs the four inches each step was high. Vann was lovely and encouraging and excited about our next eight weeks together, but I was so shattered I was struggling to remember how old I was.
Vann: “Here’s some homework for you, Erin. Firstly, do a kitchen overhaul and get rid of any evil food in your pantry. Diet is the biggest barrier standing in the way of hotness. Secondly, take a photo of yourself with as few clothes on without it becoming pornography, and keep it in your diary for the next eight weeks. You don’t have to look at it, just the memory that it’s there will make you want to work hard.”
Me: “Yes, Vann. Anything you say, Vann.” Pause. “Hold up. A fat photo? Are you serious?”
Remarkably I felt good. Despite the bleeding knees and aching arches and the fat photo that I really didn’t want to take, I felt good. Not particularly hot, but energised and, more surprisingly, excited about the next eight weeks.
Later that evening I got a call from my gym buddy who was in the middle of his first Reactiv8 session with Vann.
Him: “He made me do a million burpies and now I feel so heady and vague I think I might pass out!”
Me: “Where is Vann now? Why are you calling me when you’re still supposed to be training?”
Him: “I took too long. He had to meet his next client. He left me lying on the floor in the gym with my legs on a chair, trying to get the blood flowing back to my head. I’m so embarrassed.”
Kitchen overhaul? Check. My pantry is stocked with all things good.
Photo? Hmm, I might leave that one for another day.
Beep beep – a text from Vann at 8:35pm: Great work today. Don’t forget the photo!
Damn it.
What I’m reading: “How We Are Hungry,” a compilation of short stories by Dave Eggers
What I’m watching: the final of “America’s Next Top Model.” I can’t believe Sam made it to the final two. Outrageous.
What I’m looking forward to: battling the crowds to get to “This Is It” sometime this week.
What I’m dreading: missing out on tickets to “This Is It.”
What’s made me happy this week: taking my first swim of the summer in the ocean. It was absolutely freezing and I was still numb an hour later, but it was worth it.
What’s really annoyed me this week: Brian Tamaki making good Christians look bad.