What Doesn’t Kill You…

My friends over at Studio 30 Plus asked if I would be one of their featured bloggers in July. This is the post I wrote for them with a few minor edits.

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I broke down and hired a personal trainer.

This says several things about me. 1) I finally crossed the line where I hated myself enough to make a major life change, a change that involves pain, 2) I recognize the fact that I am not disciplined enough to get in shape on my own, and 3) I spend more money than I have.

I don’t like exercise and I don’t like it when people boss me around but I enjoy both of those things more than shopping at Lane Bryant, so here I am.

The personal trainer I hired comes to my house every Thursday. If you don’t take into account the facts that she is blonde, a runner, adorable and in fantastic shape we have a lot in common. We both used to live in Florida. We both live in the same neighborhood. We both have twins. Our twins are in the same two classes (we both split ours up). We have a lot of the same friends. We both have potty mouths and crass senses of humor.

We get along fabulously.

I think this really helps because we end up talking the whole time I am working out and then I get all distracted and forget I am doing things that are difficult and feel bad.

It is almost like she is tricking me into working out. She is a wizard or something. A personal training voodoo priestess. A workout ninja.

Whatever she is doing it is working. I feel better and I see a difference in my body. Which is why I agreed to go to her boot camp class on Tuesday morning.

She teaches this workout class in a park right by my house every Tuesday. I already knew about it, because a lot of the neighborhood ladies go. Much like in high school, and blogging, I’m not really one of the popular moms, but I know the popular people. I don’t get invited to their parties or lunches, but they will talk to me at the pool or at the grocery store or at tee ball practice, so I was already aware of this boot camp.

Hello weird and uncomfortable feelings. Where the hell did you come from? This is not a post about my fucked up insecurities. This is a post about how I threw up after boot camp. So good, now I have revealed both my unattractive lack of self-confidence and given away the end of the story. It is probably safe to stop reading now. This is only going to get worse.

So I go to the park. It is an absolutely beautiful day. Last week it was like 95 degrees, but this day it was maybe 73 degrees and sunny with a slight breeze. I put my mat in the shade. The other ladies showed up. I didn’t know any of them, but they were all nice and nobody looked like a body builder or a model so I felt safe.

For the next hour, I ran, jumped, squatted, planked, did pushups, ran more, did sit ups, did something called the wounded warrior and general cardio until I thought I was going to die.

I was actually seeing spots.

My trainer let me sit down for the last two times everyone else ran up and down the hill, which was kind of her, and then I avoided eye contact as much as possible, rushed home, and vomited. A lot.

I thought “Well I suck at this.” And with that in mind I did what any reasonable person would do. I told Twitter.

Somehow this made my Twitter followers think I was a badass. Someone even told me that Pat Summitt used to run her girls until they puked at Tennessee.

Well, shit. If Pat Summitt thinks that barfing means a good work out who am I to argue? Have I won 8 NCAA Division I Women’s Basketball Championships? No, I have not. Throwing up must be a sign of awesome.

When my trainer came here on Thursday for my normal session she was kind to me and my sore quads. I told her about my episode and she apologized, but then she laughed and said that some trainers actually considered that a success. I told her that they were sadistic, but then I also told her about Pat Summitt.

When she asked me if I was going to come to boot camp again next week I said yes.

Maybe I do like pain, but mostly I want to see if I can do it next week without throwing up. Like Schmutzie says, Grace in small things, right?

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ps – I ate Doritos the entire time I was typing this. Doritos are my dieting Kryptonite. Don’t tell my trainer, but tell the Frito Lay people. I’m looking for sponsors.

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  1. My husband and his Marine buddies all say that PT isn’t done right unless you puke after.

    and this is off topic, but going back to the post about how you run into people at the grocery store when you look like shit: the other week I went in with the twins, but I was still in my work clothes so I looked nice. We ran into one of the teachers at their school though, and she looked terrible!! Just had to share that.

  2. Mmmm Doritos. I suck at working out alone. Am too wussy to hire a trainer though.

  3. I love this post! Not so much the vomit, but the humiliation, yes.

    Mondays are the days I go to my friend – call name: Tango 5-6’s house for her unique boot camp. Tango has converted her garage into a mom torture/sweat/groan chamber.

    Four of us attend these Monday boot camps; the German, the Baker, the Coach and me. We enter Tango’s garage gym like Marines, grabbing dumbbells like ammo, planting our mats on the floor like flags on an outpost in the Korengal Valley. We get our war faces on. There’s no smiling at boot camp. Then Tango sets our workout up on her iphone and at the chime of a little cellular bell we begin. Butt squats, crab walking, mountain climbers, bicycles, tris, bis, flys and thighs. It’s brutal. And as we workout we discuss all the things we want to change about ourselves.

    The German wants the fat sucked out of her inner thighs, the Coach, Baker and I want our muffin tops removed. Tango, who can do ten one-arm push-ups wants to do no-arm push-ups. We range in size from 2-10 (guess who’s the lone 10?) But we’re over 40 so things aren’t pointing in the direction they did before and this JUST WON’T STAND.

    We all know we’re a little insane. I mean, what are we training for? The apocalypse? Will we need to rescue our children from a plague of raining pitbulls? Do we really need to be more fit than we were at twenty? Who’s going to see us naked? If all goes well and we’re never out on the dating market again that would be our husbands. And I think I’m safe when I say our husbands don’t look as good as we do naked. (Is this all sheer narcissistic vanity driven by popular media’s obsession with youth? Or are we just fighting the good fight against age and ultimately the least attractive of states, death?

    Sometimes I barf even before I get home! xo

  4. It’s always good to have goals. Not puking post-working seems to be a solid one.

    I did my first 5K on Monday. My goals were: 1) To finish before they started tearing the course down (Check. I finished in 41:30ish)

    2)To run most of it (Check. I did about 75 percent of it at a slow trot)

    3)Not hurt myself or anyone else. (Check. I was tempted to drop kick a little dog that kept darting in front of me, but it was attached to a very cute two-year-old girl and I just couldn’t punish a kid (and her dog) for being able to outrun a nearly 40 year old woman.)

    Hang in there.

  5. Good for you. Now I know I can barf after a work out of seeing spots and high five myself. Pretty cool you’ve got a trainer, AND a cool one at that.

    I’m thinking after today’s wardrobe cleaning, I could use some quality time with my iPod and the old yoga ball… maybe… now where are my dorito’s?
    Feisty

  6. puking up doritos is nooooo goooood

  7. Oh, this killed me. Good for you, Sarah. Not the puking (fuck that), but challenging yourself and trying to be healthier.

  8. Dude. That is hardcore.

    And yet, weirdly tempting.

    God, do I hear you on the hatred of shopping at Lane Bryant. Post-pregnancy, I’m back where I was two years ago, highest non-pregnancy weight ever. Sucktastic, must do something about it.

    My food kryptonite is cookies. Almost any kind, from the freaking-awesome ones I bake to the totally mediocre grocery store variety. It’s awful.

  9. I knew someone from my hs that played for Pat in the 80’s. I would love to know if that was true. But she (the player) was bad ass so I’d guess it was.

    You’re a better woman than I. There is a boot camp in my neighborhood at 5:30 am. I seem to love my sleep and gushy belly more than I do working out.

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