I’m supposed to meet with my trainer today and I’m looking for ways to get out of it — a migraine would be great ... a pulled disc in my back ... shingles anyone? If this were a mercy date, or even a meeting with my editor, I’d feel easier about crying wolf and getting in bed with a pint of Butter Pecan Soy Dream and Food & Wine. But there is something more powerful, more intimidating about canceling on your trainer. Because, aren’t you, in the cheesiest sense, canceling on yourself?
I’ve always had fantasies of having my own personal trainer — and honestly the fantasy was pretty much what I got: a big athletic man who couldn’t be talked out of his program by my wily ways. When I was twelve I would pore over pictures of Madonna running with her trainer and say to myself, “one day I’ll have that.” Admittedly I also hoped for Madonna’s bank account and body, but who’s counting blessings?
I was first netted by the siren song of Mr. Muscles after a particularly trying day. I wanted to punch something, hard. I walked in, Mr. Muscles gave me a big smile and, yes folks, he had me at Bally’s. I asked him if there was anything moderately violent going on right then — any boxing or even something militaristic because I was in the mood to kick some ass. He said, “I’ll work out with you. Go jump on the elliptical and I’ll be right over.” What ensued was one of the best workouts I’ve ever had in my life where before I knew it I was in boxing gloves and was dropping to the floor to do straggly push-ups and stomach crunches in between uppercuts and body shots and we were both sweating and laughing as I got to whale on him and, in the most primal sense, I got to kick the Dickens out of everything and everyone irritating me. In the end, we’re all primates and there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of using our fists.
I was hooked on having Mr. Muscles kick my ass, and borrowed some money from my father to continue the luxury of having my ass kicked because, as I explained, I need to lose weight for my wedding. My father obliged and here we are; me donning boxing gloves and dropping to the ground to do all kinds of weird and humiliating exercises that involve no end of balls and pulleys and weights and gloves ... it’s all kind of kinky except you don’t really have time to think about it being kinky because Mr. Muscles is encouraging you to run in place or jump rope or box thin air all the while commanding you not to give up and to “make him proud.”
If I cared more I’d be totally embarrassed. I’m sure watching me do this is better than whatever’s on CNN for the fifty or so runners all positioned on their treadmills with the best seats in the house as I’m heaving and bellowing and sweating and getting totally undone. I like to imagine that unlike the voyeurs I’m sure they are (and I’d be, too) they’re inspired and awestruck by my stick-to-it-ness and all the hoops I’m jumping through in order to perfect my punch (and in my fantasies maybe even a little bit scared of my wallop?). But the reality is probably closer to the glee Cowboy gets from watching the White Rapper Show: this is reality TV right here, front and center.
