|This is my new trainer. Except not. But sort of. Just keep reading.|
Dr. Fat Ass is persistent. As you know, for my first several sessions with him, he casually pointed out that perhaps I should lose a little weight. Sometimes not so casually.
But Dr. Fat Ass also knows his shit. So far (knock on wood) he has been dead on about what I need to do to help my back. #1 rule: Always keep moving. Or, as he colorfully puts it: “Stopping equals death.”
He likes to talk about death, particularly after donning a thick and obviously fake Scottish accent (he’s fun!). It’s sort of contrived – a doctor telling you that if you don’t change your ways you’ll die. But I guess it’s true. Well, of course it’s true: no matter what you do, eventually you will die.
Way to play the odds, Dr. Fat Ass.
A couple weeks ago, after giving me a trainer’s phone number maybe three times over the course of six months, he chastised me for still not calling him.
“You know what happens to people who put things off?” he asked as he stretched my legs back and forth.
Don’t say they die. I know you’re going to say it, but don’t say they die – it’s such a cliché, I thought.
He stopped stretching me for a moment, paused dramatically, and said:
I wanted to smack him and laugh at the same time.
But he was right.
I called the trainer that day, as I was leaving the chiropractor’s office. We played a bit of phone tag and finally met yesterday. I went on and on about how I’m an athlete at heart – I used to row, how I came to college after a life of couch-potatoing championships and turned things around and worked out every day and then I hurt my back and since then I haven’t been able to work out consistently without re-injuring myself and starting from square one.
I joked and charmed and rocked his evaluative exercises and even teased him a bit about his broken nose (which I immediately regretted because – HELLO you just met him and maybe he’s sensitive about it? But it turns out he’s got an awesome and manly story to go with it so it’s all good). I felt like I was on top.
He was super cool. Fit but not a meathead at all. Friendly. A bit of a hippie, but in a really good, authentic way. Knowledgeable. And he likes cats for crying out loud.
I left feeling utterly amazing. Okay, I thought. I can do this!
And then I followed him on Instagram.
He had mentioned how he was crazy about Instagram right now, posting videos and exercises and such. Cool, I thought. I’ll check it out. I logged on and quickly followed him.
Um. Guys. He’s phenomenal.
He does things with his body that I’ve only ever seen those crazy-fit Cirque du Soleil brothers do. He’s just plain ridiculously and amazingly and jaw-droppingly in shape. He trains with freakin’ pro football players for the love of Pete.
At this point, I know two things for sure:
1. I am way out of my league (and shape).
2. I want to do all of those things with my body, too.
Watching those videos stirred that ember within me – the one that used to be a raging fire, until my lumbar spine threw a big bucket of water on it. The fire wasn’t extinguished, but it’s certainly struggling.
My new trainer – I think I’ll call him Chimpy – has a really great mentality: Go back to basics, break it down to the foundation and build from there. Breathe. Build. Move.
I’m going to do this. Even if I’m completely intimidated the entire time.