My 19 year old daughter joined the gym a few weeks ago and, because I referred her, I got three personal training sessions for $50. Good suggestive selling… “would you like fries with that?”
And now I’ve signed up for a block of 8 sessions with a trainer who has a voice for radio and a body for… well, let’s just stick with the voice.
He also does the Elvis-style ‘thank you very much’ when I manage to squeeze my butt, suck in my abs, keep my knees together (yes, there’s a line there), and maintain correct hip alignment – all while balancing with my shoulders on an exercise ball and executing some ridiculous pelvic manoeuvre.
I’m not sure my multi-tasking skills need the workout…but apparently my abs do. I’m sure these PTs stay awake at night dreaming up new tortures.
The funny thing about a half hour training session is that I feel good after it – even if I swear and curse at the PT all the way through it. He wasn’t even slightly surprised when I told him my dad was ex-Navy.
The only downside (which I’m told is a good sign) is that my protesting abs scream even louder the day after. Um, that’d be today actually.
Just goes to show that all those contracts you make with yourself are a waste of time. I can cheat myself easily. But when someone’s watching, I grit my teeth and keep going…
Well, would any sane person really do a hideous number of convoluted scrunches that target every millimetre of their abs? Left to my own devices I would have stopped at 10 (and that’s probably an exaggeration).
Anyway, by the time bikini weather really strikes, I’ll be ready to grin and bear it.
If not, according to the fashion doyennes, a strategically-draped sarong will cover a multitude of ills. I was thinking more along the lines of a bed-sheet…
Elle
Sliding In Sideways 
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