Yesterday was the first day I was able to go to the gym since the Bleh took over my body. It was also the first time I met my personal trainer. When I had originally signed up a week ago Sunday, the Program Director assigned a trainer to me and said that they would call me on Monday. He also mentioned that if I didn't hear from the trainer, then I should call him on Tuesday. Well, my trainer didn't call on Monday but that was okay with me because I was suffering from the Bleh.
I had the day off last Thursday and I still hadn't heard from the trainer, so I picked up the phone and called the Program Director. He wasn't in so I left a message. Lo and behold a few hours later, the trainer called and we arranged a time to meet. One would think that my call probably spurred on the response, right? Strangely enough, no. The Program Director left a message on Friday to apologize for not being there Thursday and said he would find out why the trainer hadn't called me.
Monday was the initial session where I got to meet my trainer. He got to know a little about me, I got to know a little about him and we set some goals for the next three months.
And somewhere during that time, I could've sworn The 'Verse was laughing.
First there was the occurrence on Thursday. He and I just happen
to be thinking about calling each other on the same day? Then during Monday's meeting the similarities just built up. He's vegetarian (so am I), he lives near the college (so do I), he's into an all-around fitness routine including Pilates and Yoga and not just weight lifting (my thoughts exactly), and not only is he punctual, but he was actually 10 minutes early! (Hey, so was I!)
As many people have experienced, I am not an easy person to get to know. I'm usually pretty guarded and it can take time before I even start opening up. It's very rare that I'll just start socializing with a perfect stranger. Something has to click with me before I really talk. Well, in this case, I think we "clicked". Granted, it was only the first meeting and he hasn't put me through my workout schedule yet, but as far as interpersonal relationships go, this was pretty comfortable.
After our meeting, he asked if I wanted to work out for a half hour. I said sure. He took me over to one of the treadmills and started it up for me. (A little confession time here: I have never been to one of these gym/club things. I've seen the treadmill my mom has, and I've ridden stationary bikes — and none of them have had that
many buttons on them! My gods! I swear I could've flown the space shuttle from that thing!)
A half hour. That's all I had to do on the treadmill. No sweat. I had absolutely no problem whatsoever with walking in place on something that was making me feel like I was moving but the scenery wasn't changing. For anyone who knows me, I have just given you all the warning clues about what happened next.
I don't know what it is about my body, but I have this strange equilibrium thing that goes on. I have problems with motion-sickness, elevators can trigger it, and even just sitting still in front of a TV while someone is playing a first-person shoot'em up like Halo
can set me off. Yeah. IMAX movies are not my friend.
So, a half hour later. I lift myself off the treadmill to stand on the sideboards so I can turn the machine off. The tread stops and I step off the machine — and careen right into the wall behind me. For some inexplicable reason, my body treats walking on a treadmill exactly as if I was just getting on (or off) a ship. I have no land-legs. My equilibrium is off kilter.
I allow a few minutes to pass before I even dare challenge myself to walk to the locker room. I chalk this up to another lesson learned — treadmills are not my friend. Who knew?
I go back on Wednesday, at which point my trainer will have developed a exercise regimen for me. I'll be fine as long as he lets me walk without the aid of a machine. It'll better for all of us. And I can still hear The 'Verse laughing.