A couple of months ago, when I called to ask my athletics-obsessed Dad if he would sponsor my fitness endeavor, his response was, “Aren’t trainers for old women with too much money?”
Tuesday morning I had my first personal training session. Ever.
I’ve worked out with a better-informed friend on many occasions, and I’ve even had a gym orientation with a trainer, but I’ve never had a comprehensive one-on-one experience with someone who has my strengths, weaknesses and goals in mind.
Coming out of the meeting, I was elated. I had worked more leg muscles than I thought I had — it seems to me that most people only work their calves, quads and hamstrings — and naming them at this point would be like me trying to say the Spanish alphabet backwards. I even learned about myofascial release, which is essentially a soft therapy for your fascia (a web of soft tissue that forms connective tissue) which is equal parts painful and relieving.
I even called to tell my Dad that I feel like I’ve learned more in one session than I think some of my P90X-obsessed, gym-loving male friends seem to know.
The only drawback? I’ve never been so sore in all my life. Walking up stairs feels like running a marathon, and trying to sit down is only easy when I have some upper-body support. I know the pain indicates I’ve made a great change, but I hope every session doesn’t leave me feeling so tight and restricted.
Pause the Press 