Barry White is going to get me ripped, even if it kills me
Let’s travel in time to this past Saturday, shall we? My work-out buddy (hereby known as E, until I decide a better moniker for her) and I had our initial session with our new trainer, Heather. E and I got to the gym right on time for our 12 pm appointment, and waited. And waited. Heather finally decided to stroll toward our table around 12:10, plopped into her chair open-legged, and began talking with absolutely no introduction.
“Mbghio bfji rghio gthjiob tihhjri. Bdfijiti bhi ghign?”
That’s all I heard for two reasons.
You know those girls who make you do a double-take when they talk because their voice sounds like Barry White?
The second reason is that she was mumbling in her muffled baritone toward the table. No eye contact. Something about metabolism, and water, and what do I eat. I answered her in my usual intelligent manner, making eye contact with the side of her face:
“Uhhh…I used to eat bad stuff….like…fried stuff and whatever, but now I eat good stuff, like fruits and vegetables, and like, turkey and stuff.” Man. I should really think about going into the nutrition field if this teaching thing doesn’t work out.
This intelligent exchange continued for the next five minutes or so, as Heather muttered into the table and shoved papers toward us to sign. I started to wonder if she would notice if I started answering her questions using only Barry White song titles since she seemed so uninterested in my answers.
Heather: So, what are your goals?
Me: Staying Power.
Heather: Have you had a trainer before?
Me: You’re The First, The Last, My Everything.
Heather: Do you have any specific areas on which you’d like to focus?
Me: Honey Please Can’t Ya See? You See The Trouble With Me.
Heather: Ok, we’re gonna go over here so I can measure you.
Me: I’ll Do For You Anything You Want Me To.
On Tuesday, it was time for our first workout. Heather led us to a corner of the gym and
adjusted her package demonstrated the leg circuit for us. After the third time through it, there was a nuclear war happening in my thighs. She wanted us to do it ONE MORE TIME.
Since I’m paying for this, I want to give it my all. I’m not giving up. (Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up) I powered through the fourth time, huffing and puffing, wiping my nose on my shirt sleeve, then dropping the kettlebell to the floor and guzzling water. My heart rate was somewhere in the 340 range. That may have been slightly exaggerated.
We started to walk toward the bench press and I was feeling like a champ. I made it! My 11-inch thighs are gonna be ripped!
Then, things started looking a little strange.
White spots filled my vision. Stomach churned. Room was spinning.
Great. Instead of impressing Barr…Heather with my outstanding endurance, I’m now sitting on a bench, breathing deeply and wondering if she would crush my head between her thighs if I puked right here. I’ve always been good at first impressions.
“You ok?” (What Am I Gonna Do With You) “You’d better take a walk.” (Baby, We Better Try To Get It Together)
Three days later, my legs are still sore. Barry’s on a mission to kill me, but if it gets me ripped, I can handle it. Just don’t expect me to look like one of those female bodybuilders. I haven’t had time to stock my baby oil supply
Posted on July 29, 2011, in Humor, Random Stories and tagged awkward, Barry White, exercise, gym, humor, manly, personal trainer, self-deprecation, sick, working out. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.