I try to exercise regularly. I really do. I feel healthier both mentally and physically; my clothes fit nicely… the list goes on. I need not explain further, we’re all familiar with the pros of routine exercise. Of course, however, I have my bad days. As I sit here munching on my curly fries from Arby’s… Perhaps that’s why I chose to write about my love of exercise. The hypocrisy is just too perfect to ignore. Listen, I’ll pay for my poor choice tomorrow when I get all bloated and sick to my stomach. Right now, I’ll savor every last crunchy, spicy tendril. Anyway… Exercise.
I love the feeling right afterwards. I’m alive, accomplished, and high on adrenaline and endorphins. I hit this smallish gym up a few times a week, and I even had a personal trainer for a hot minute. You know, how you go and sign up, and then thirty minutes later, your left eye is twitching and 10 sessions have been booked and paid for… yeah, that happened, and to this day, I still don’t know how it all went down.
My trainer, Miguel, was cool, really funny, and easy to talk to. Miguel was insane though. He was seriously built, trained hardcore everyday and won several body building competitions. I’m really not sure if he did anything else besides exercise and eat tiny containers of tree nuts. For real, he ate around the clock and would bust out tiny containers of carefully measured snacks to keep his metabolism up. I don’t have the time, energy, or desire to do ANY of that.
Prepare all your meals on Sunday he said, weigh out your portions he said, only eat the good carbs, keep a food journal, count your calories… Ok, ok, ok! So I know I signed up for this shit, but I didn’t really sign up for this shit. Miguel, while super fun to train with, started getting pushy, intrusive, and downright annoying. So I had to explain to him that I’m not quite interested in doing any of that. You’re my trainer, I hired you to get fit, not to look exactly like you and to take on your exact lifestyle. Small changes, sure, swapping out a pudding cup for yogurt, chips for carrot sticks, those sorts of small changes. I want to be healthy and strong, but I’m seriously okay with not looking like I came off of a fitness magazine.
I got a trainer to, well; I’m not sure why I got a trainer. I was duped. Maybe I was secretly drugged when I walked through the door, but I just couldn’t say no to the “great deal for new members.” Anyway, could I stand to lose a few pounds? Sure. Do I want to learn a few more training techniques? Sure. But dude, don’t lecture me about why I’m not writing in a food journal. I’m a grown ass woman, specifically, a grown ass Italian woman who loves her bread and would straight up marry a wheel of cheese.
I’m comfortable enough in my own skin to take on this exercising/dieting into my own hands. Thanks, but no thanks, Miguel. We’re through.