And the rubber band snaps
I usually don't have too hard of a time finding ways to embarrass myself. Crying in public is an oldie but goodie; crying at the gym is an art form I practice maybe once every six years. With Mercury in retrograde, I thought I'd revisit it this weekend.
Three months after I completed my Equifit test, I finally booked my complimentary training session. I hadn't meant to go so long - my original trainer who conducted the Equifit flaked out on my first appointment back in January, and I gave him the benefit of two months to re-schedule before finally asking management to book me with another trainer. So yesterday I arrived to meet with Kevin, an ex-marine who stood over six feet tall with at least 250 pounds of solid muscle. I was immediately thankful upon sight. Unlike my somewhat-gangly original trainer, Kevin actually looked the part, and I knew I wouldn't have a hard time convincing him to work me to the bone.
What I liked even more than Kevin's stature was that he was just the right amount of friendly mixed with pure business. I've worked with too many trainers who are happy just to sit and chat all day and I have to gently remind them that I am there to work. Kevin got right to it, and I knew almost immediately that I would pay to spend time with him again.
He seemed just as pleased with the pairing, and I knew I was impressing him with my strength. I'm not the most cut girl, but after more than a decade of working out I'm pretty damn strong and can lift more than you'd guess just by looking at me. As we worked our way through various exercises, he continually told me how surprised and pleased he was at my fitness level. When it came time to stretch me out, he was even more impressed by the fact that - despite being a runner and weight lifter - I'm as limber as a dancer and, like a rubber band, can stretch far beyond my natural resting state.
I finished the workout on a high - I had never liked a trainer so much so quickly before, and I couldn't wait to buy a package of sessions. Even though I knew it would be expensive, it would fall within my budget and well, if I ever needed an excuse to splurge I think my upcoming 30th birthday is as good a reason as any. You try being 29 and single in a size 0 city and tell me what you'd spend your money on. Judging by the next 10 minutes, though, one could argue that my money might be better spent on therapy.
For some reason I'd had it in my head that I'd be able to pay for the sessions in installments. Bally's allows it, 24 Hour Fitness allows it; but I should have known that Equinox, whose monthly membership costs close to Bally's and 24 Fitness combined, wouldn't stoop to such a second-class practice. Apparently, if you can afford their gym, you can afford to pay up front. Or work out on your own, you poor fat slob.
I had my credit card in hand, ready to buy a package of 12 sessions, practically begging them to take my money - just not all at once. That amount on my credit card was just intimidating, and, in my book, unnecessary if I was willing to pay the same price over time, right? I spoke to the trainer, the sales staff, the manager, and then his manager, and they all told me the same thing. No. Frustrated and angry, I acted as any GI Jane tough girl in combat would do - I cried.
I didn't mean to - don't even know what happened. One minute I was happy, proud, excited; the next I was staring at the price sheet, keenly aware of a lump forming in my throat and tears threatening to break forth. Instead of listening to the explanations or deciding to hold off my decision for an hour or a day, I stood paralyzed, concentrating solely on not crying all-out in front of the entire staff. After 90 minutes of push-ups, squats, lifts, and crunches, not-crying was the one thing I just could not do.
The tears started to roll down my face and the five or so staff members at the desk stared at me with complete and utter bewilderment. Upstairs I had been a pillar of strength; down here I was a mental basket case unraveling before their eyes. I just couldn't bring myself to buy 12 sessions, but I couldn't walk away from the best trainer I had ever met, either. I would regret it, and I knew it. Desperate to end the humiliation and get out of there, I finally purchased one session, dripping tears on my receipt as I signed it. Pretty hot, huh?
Kevin walked me out with his arm around my shoulders, adding compassion to his list of admirable traits, but by that point, in addition to being mad and disappointed, I was beyond embarrassed, and moreso, baffled as to why I was so upset about losing something that was never even mine to begin with. Did he work my muscle tissue so hard that I was physically and mentally exhausted? Was it an emotional release, the way many people cry during a massage because the work actually goes much deeper? Whatever it was, something snapped, and now I'm left with a sorely bruised ego.
I mentioned that, sadly, I'm not a complete stranger to crying at the gym. The first time was about six years ago, when a trainer booted me off the treadmill after I surpassed the 30 minute time limit. Minutes from my goal and on top of a classic runner's high, I flew off the treadmill in a rage and gave him the same eloquent reaction of this weekend: tears. Inexplicable, unneccesary, and unfortunately unstoppable tears. I suppose it's possible I had been stretched too thin.
Three months after I completed my Equifit test, I finally booked my complimentary training session. I hadn't meant to go so long - my original trainer who conducted the Equifit flaked out on my first appointment back in January, and I gave him the benefit of two months to re-schedule before finally asking management to book me with another trainer. So yesterday I arrived to meet with Kevin, an ex-marine who stood over six feet tall with at least 250 pounds of solid muscle. I was immediately thankful upon sight. Unlike my somewhat-gangly original trainer, Kevin actually looked the part, and I knew I wouldn't have a hard time convincing him to work me to the bone.
What I liked even more than Kevin's stature was that he was just the right amount of friendly mixed with pure business. I've worked with too many trainers who are happy just to sit and chat all day and I have to gently remind them that I am there to work. Kevin got right to it, and I knew almost immediately that I would pay to spend time with him again.
He seemed just as pleased with the pairing, and I knew I was impressing him with my strength. I'm not the most cut girl, but after more than a decade of working out I'm pretty damn strong and can lift more than you'd guess just by looking at me. As we worked our way through various exercises, he continually told me how surprised and pleased he was at my fitness level. When it came time to stretch me out, he was even more impressed by the fact that - despite being a runner and weight lifter - I'm as limber as a dancer and, like a rubber band, can stretch far beyond my natural resting state.
I finished the workout on a high - I had never liked a trainer so much so quickly before, and I couldn't wait to buy a package of sessions. Even though I knew it would be expensive, it would fall within my budget and well, if I ever needed an excuse to splurge I think my upcoming 30th birthday is as good a reason as any. You try being 29 and single in a size 0 city and tell me what you'd spend your money on. Judging by the next 10 minutes, though, one could argue that my money might be better spent on therapy.
For some reason I'd had it in my head that I'd be able to pay for the sessions in installments. Bally's allows it, 24 Hour Fitness allows it; but I should have known that Equinox, whose monthly membership costs close to Bally's and 24 Fitness combined, wouldn't stoop to such a second-class practice. Apparently, if you can afford their gym, you can afford to pay up front. Or work out on your own, you poor fat slob.
I had my credit card in hand, ready to buy a package of 12 sessions, practically begging them to take my money - just not all at once. That amount on my credit card was just intimidating, and, in my book, unnecessary if I was willing to pay the same price over time, right? I spoke to the trainer, the sales staff, the manager, and then his manager, and they all told me the same thing. No. Frustrated and angry, I acted as any GI Jane tough girl in combat would do - I cried.
I didn't mean to - don't even know what happened. One minute I was happy, proud, excited; the next I was staring at the price sheet, keenly aware of a lump forming in my throat and tears threatening to break forth. Instead of listening to the explanations or deciding to hold off my decision for an hour or a day, I stood paralyzed, concentrating solely on not crying all-out in front of the entire staff. After 90 minutes of push-ups, squats, lifts, and crunches, not-crying was the one thing I just could not do.
The tears started to roll down my face and the five or so staff members at the desk stared at me with complete and utter bewilderment. Upstairs I had been a pillar of strength; down here I was a mental basket case unraveling before their eyes. I just couldn't bring myself to buy 12 sessions, but I couldn't walk away from the best trainer I had ever met, either. I would regret it, and I knew it. Desperate to end the humiliation and get out of there, I finally purchased one session, dripping tears on my receipt as I signed it. Pretty hot, huh?
Kevin walked me out with his arm around my shoulders, adding compassion to his list of admirable traits, but by that point, in addition to being mad and disappointed, I was beyond embarrassed, and moreso, baffled as to why I was so upset about losing something that was never even mine to begin with. Did he work my muscle tissue so hard that I was physically and mentally exhausted? Was it an emotional release, the way many people cry during a massage because the work actually goes much deeper? Whatever it was, something snapped, and now I'm left with a sorely bruised ego.
I mentioned that, sadly, I'm not a complete stranger to crying at the gym. The first time was about six years ago, when a trainer booted me off the treadmill after I surpassed the 30 minute time limit. Minutes from my goal and on top of a classic runner's high, I flew off the treadmill in a rage and gave him the same eloquent reaction of this weekend: tears. Inexplicable, unneccesary, and unfortunately unstoppable tears. I suppose it's possible I had been stretched too thin.
Labels: gym
posted by Lori @ 4:51 PM
1 Comments:
LORI! poor thing, but if you need to do it one session at a time, then that's fine, as long as you meet your end goals, right? And that is awesome that you took it all the way to the top. Go New York! But huphter is right - maybe next session you take him aside and see what his deal is. It never hurts to ask.
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