"That Is Way Too Big For Me To Handle!"
Ha!
The verbiage that gets slung around while working out with a trainer can involve a lot of innuendo.
Mostly from me, as I am perpetually that 16 year-old girl, sense of humor-wise. My poor trainer, Camp, let's it mostly slide away into obscurity. He'll acknowledge it with a laugh... But quickly change the subject back to whatever it is we're working on that day. The other day it was glutes.
That means "my fat bum."
Every few sessions, Camp likes to make me do these squatty-things where I hold a weight up to my chest, just under my chin... And then squat all the way down till I almost sit down on the weight bench... Then pop back up.
I don't know what they're called. But I know they're to make my bum look better.
When I first started doing them, a few sessions back, I was doing them with a 20 pound weight. Then that jumped up to 25 pounds back in January. Then 30 pounds. Then 35 pounds a few weeks ago. We'd been holding it nice and steady there for a while, when all of a sudden Camp went "crazy."
The shit went down yesterday.
"Here you go," he said, handing me a large weight.
"What the F&** is that?" I asked. "That looks like bullsh&t to me!"
He's used to my swearing by now. I hope.
"This is the weight you're going to use," he said. Simply. Plainly.
"Like hell it is," I said. "We were at 35 last time. How did we jump all the way to 45? That is way too big for me to handle!"
And for good measure, I added, "Said your mom!"
He chuckled. And then prompted me to get going.
This is where the 35 year-old in me decided to suck it up and not argue. I did roll my eyes, however. And made sure he noticed.
This is what I appreciate about trainers, and why I have spent 2.5 of the last 5.5 years using one...
I am freaking unmotivated and lazy.
Sure. I go to yoga. I go to the gym. But when I hit the gym by myself, I don't challenge myself. I walk or jog (the "j" is silent) on the treadmill. I might take a fitness class and get my heart rate up or throw some kettle bells up. But I don't challenge myself with heavier weights. And I can't keep track of what I should be doing, how I should be doing it, and how my body is changing after doing it for some time.
Camp says he can already see a different in how I hold and lift things. The Husband says he can tell things are working because I'm visibly toning in places.
That's why I find it odd when people ask me, "Why do you use a trainer?"
I'm just now at a point in my life where my health matters more to me than the multiple cups of Starbucks I used to get a day... And more than the clothes I used to buy every month... Or the cabs I used to take to and from work... Or the lunches I use to eat out every day because I was too busy to make my own.
Between the yoga and the personal training, I'm feel much more balanced than I have in years. And right now, nothing is too big for me to handle...
Till Camp tries to up the weight to 50 pounds. And then there will be hell to pay. HELL TO PAY!!! (Shaking fists to the sky!)
The verbiage that gets slung around while working out with a trainer can involve a lot of innuendo.
Mostly from me, as I am perpetually that 16 year-old girl, sense of humor-wise. My poor trainer, Camp, let's it mostly slide away into obscurity. He'll acknowledge it with a laugh... But quickly change the subject back to whatever it is we're working on that day. The other day it was glutes.
That means "my fat bum."
Every few sessions, Camp likes to make me do these squatty-things where I hold a weight up to my chest, just under my chin... And then squat all the way down till I almost sit down on the weight bench... Then pop back up.
I don't know what they're called. But I know they're to make my bum look better.
When I first started doing them, a few sessions back, I was doing them with a 20 pound weight. Then that jumped up to 25 pounds back in January. Then 30 pounds. Then 35 pounds a few weeks ago. We'd been holding it nice and steady there for a while, when all of a sudden Camp went "crazy."
The shit went down yesterday.
"Here you go," he said, handing me a large weight.
"What the F&** is that?" I asked. "That looks like bullsh&t to me!"
He's used to my swearing by now. I hope.
"This is the weight you're going to use," he said. Simply. Plainly.
"Like hell it is," I said. "We were at 35 last time. How did we jump all the way to 45? That is way too big for me to handle!"
And for good measure, I added, "Said your mom!"
He chuckled. And then prompted me to get going.
This is where the 35 year-old in me decided to suck it up and not argue. I did roll my eyes, however. And made sure he noticed.
This is what I appreciate about trainers, and why I have spent 2.5 of the last 5.5 years using one...
I am freaking unmotivated and lazy.
Sure. I go to yoga. I go to the gym. But when I hit the gym by myself, I don't challenge myself. I walk or jog (the "j" is silent) on the treadmill. I might take a fitness class and get my heart rate up or throw some kettle bells up. But I don't challenge myself with heavier weights. And I can't keep track of what I should be doing, how I should be doing it, and how my body is changing after doing it for some time.
Camp says he can already see a different in how I hold and lift things. The Husband says he can tell things are working because I'm visibly toning in places.
That's why I find it odd when people ask me, "Why do you use a trainer?"
I'm just now at a point in my life where my health matters more to me than the multiple cups of Starbucks I used to get a day... And more than the clothes I used to buy every month... Or the cabs I used to take to and from work... Or the lunches I use to eat out every day because I was too busy to make my own.
Between the yoga and the personal training, I'm feel much more balanced than I have in years. And right now, nothing is too big for me to handle...
Till Camp tries to up the weight to 50 pounds. And then there will be hell to pay. HELL TO PAY!!! (Shaking fists to the sky!)
Comments
Lift the big ass weight. I have mad respect for chicks who go heavy on the weight.