Jon and I recently joined a gym close to his work, mainly so that he can use the squash courts (a lot of the gyms out here don't have them). It is, for lack of a better word, about as old-school WASPy as it gets, with the women's gym in the basement and separate areas for virtually everything except dining. Surprisingly, the space division has turned out to be a good thing (no sweaty, old men watching you on the treadmill). Upon signing up, we were offered a free consultation with a trainer.
I had mine yesterday.
"Circuit training" is actually jacked-up-on-Creatine trainer speak for "devil's paining." I cannot move. Going downstairs feels like someone is lighting a cigarette on the inside of my thighs. And forget sitting down. Yeah right. One hour of jumping rope, lunges, weights, sit-ups and various torture tactics repeated over and over with no breaks - as the trainer peppered me with comments such as, "Nope - five more to go," when I may have accidentally miscounted - equals a hangover worse than if I'd downed a bottle of Pepe Lopez tequila with a side of Peppermint Schnapp's.
And, as just a slap in the face for fun, it appears my thighs have gotten bigger. Swollen? Furious at me? Who knows. I can barely look down to address the situation. At the end of the hour, the trainer looked at me and said, "So, would you like to sign up for regular sessions?"
I literally laughed.
Friday Forecast = leggings, a down comforter and ice packs taped to my legs and arms in style similar to Iron Man.