The biggest loser

Next time anyone hears me commenting on how it might be nice to have a personal trainer, slap me with a 2x4, because honestly? The pain would be fleeting and sweet in comparison to the hell I am suffering right now below my waist.

I recently joined L.A. Fitness in order to be able to play racquetball with my family without paying a ridiculous fee each time (seriously, $15 to wall myself into a 20x10 space and run around willy-nilly to avoid being laid out by an erratic, speeding rubber ball?). As part of their generous "welcome" package, I was invited to experience a 30-minute session with one of their personal trainers (or "sadists"). 

Now, I haven't worked out since like 2003 or something like that. I think I watched an episode of The Daily Show while strolling on a treadmill once last year, and I went tanning a couple of times at a 24 Hour Fitness, but that's the closest I've come to anything remotely resembling exercise since returning from Costa Rica in 2005, where at one point I actually turned and asked James, "Do you think I'm getting TOO buff?" (What. We spent four months surfing and swimming and sweating all day. I looked good.)

So when I met with my trainer, I made sure to emphasize the fact that I am a soft, weak creature quite possibly allergic to my own sweat, and certainly not there training for the Iron Man triathlon. I just wanted to tone up a bit. I know he saw my mouth moving -- he even nodded a few times -- but I think what he actually heard was, "Look, I'm training to run to the moon, and I need you to help me build muscles in my legs that will defy physics. Today. If you do this, I will give you head for nine straight weeks." Because what happened next was in no way an ease-into-it workout designed for a fleshy wine-swilling, chocolate-loving, web geek like myself.

We started with lunges. Have you ever done lunges? I bet if I looked up "lunges" in the encyclopedia, it would show pictures of the Romans torturing early Christians by making them lunge across the length of the Colisseum with 8-pound weight balls repeatedly. This is what the sadist made me do (only twice, but COME ON, DUDE). After the first set, my legs were shaking. I mentioned this. He was all, "Yeah, we gotta strengthen those quads!" It was then I realized I had descended into the seventh layer of hell. There was no inferno, no gnashing of teeth, no wailing...just shaky legs, an embarrassing lack of balance, and a douchebag in slacks and loafers walking beside me casually talking about selling his motorcyle on Craigslist while I tried desperately not to fall over with each step.

After the lunges, I hoped it was over. Great workout! Smell ya later! But no. He grabbed some dumbbells and situated me on a machine I will never again be able to look at without fearing that I might wet myself at the memory. It basically simulated wall-sits, but with weight pressing down from above. I squatted and curled and tried not to cry. (I'm not kidding.) Then we did real wall-sits and different arm exercises with the weights. I wondered if it was normal to feel the need to poop oneself during this exercise, and thanked myself for not having another cup of coffee before coming.

Then it happened: I started to see flashes of light. I felt like I was going to faint. I was nauseous. I told the sadist that I didn't feel well. He told me to rest (as if I were inclined to keep going). I must've looked awful, because a few seconds later, he actually asked me if I needed to run to the bathroom. I nodded, ran as fast as my weak-ass, wobbly legs would carry me to the locker room, and THREW UP. In hindsight, I suppose not eating for 16 hours prior to pushing my body to its pathetic limits had a lot to do with it, but I prefer to think it was all due to his merciless circus of pain.

I returned a few minutes later, admitted to having painted the handicap stall in the bathroom a lovely shade of death, and -- I can only attribute this to a lack of oxygen to my brain -- continued the workout. For one minute. Until I realized my body was probably trying to tell me something, and that that something was "STOP FUCKING DOING THAT."

So we stopped. I went home sore and humiliated and worked up a nice migraine to complement the brutal destruction of my leg muscles. I missed out on an epic party (and dance-off!) that night because of my condition, and have been hobbling around like a 90-year-old woman ever since. You have not witnessed pure physical comedy until you have seen me try to lower myself onto the toilet (or rise from it) these past two days. No amount of potassium can save me now; there aren't enough bananas in the world. My legs are lost to me.

On Sunday, the gym rep who signed me up called my parents (I was added onto their family plan) to express their condolences at having raised a total pussy, and offered to give me another session free of charge to make up for it.

And just as soon as I can walk again without looking like someone removed my legs, filled them with Jell-O and reattached them (backwards), I'm marching right in there to tell them where they can shove their lunges. Right up their perfectly toned asses.

(I dedicate this entry to Carrie, who has witnessed firsthand my physical inability to exercise (the 1/8-mile marathon, my 15-minute circuit training) over the years and who came up with the title. How I miss our post-workout skinnies and corndogs.)

Comments

[Carrie]

yes. YES. To have a blog dedicated to me is remarkable. To have it be this one! EPIC.

Oh how I hope you get relief soon and so sorry for incessantly hitting your leg yesterday forgetting your muscles or lack thereof were screaming at you.

And oh how I miss our circuit training workouts at the 24 hour fitness where we felt hideous in our lack of bulging breasts, designer apparel, and spray tans. Stick to the tricep machine from now on...and your 5 minute jogs on the treadmill. That oughta do ya.

[Katie]

Oh Melissa...I haven't laughed so hard in quite awhile. Thank you, and your sore legs, for making me smile. Never a fan of working out myself, I can totally relate. Just stop your intake of fluids all together and then you can avoid the awful task of having to use the toilet. You get an A for effort in my book.