So, Dirty Bastard Trainer (DBT) saw me at the gym today. I was just doing my own thing, lifting weights. I saw him coming. How can you hide when you are standing in the middle of a room with 5 lb dumbells in your hands? You can't.
"Hey," he says, "do you want some help?"
No, damnit. I do not want his help. I want him to leave me alone so I can have my wimpy little workout and go home.
"Sure!" I said with a smile (through gritted teeth). But what I was really thinking, was "No! No! No! Go away!"
I don't even know if I can describe what he had me do. I was lying on a machine that strangely reminded me of my birthing beds at the hospitals where the boys were born. My back was almost staight up and my legs were extended straight in front of me. But at the bottom was what looked like a big footboard, and, oh yeah, there are 30 lb weights attached to the "chair." So I would pull my knees up to my chest and then straighten my legs and spring off of the "footboard," alternating one foot on the upper part of the footboard and one part on the lower. That sounds draconian enough, right? But, no. DBT never stops at stage one of hell. He keeps it going. While I am springing and alternating, he also has me lifting weights above my head.
"Just do it in one easy, fluid, motion," he says.
"Fuck you," is what I say. Only I don't say it out loud. I just smile (but not quite so warmly this time) and try not to think about what I am asking my body to do.
After a few repetitions of this, I really hate him and I really want to stop. I am not paying him so I am sure he will go away. Only this DBT actually enjoys pushing peoples' bodies to their limit. So he doesn't go away. He stays. And he makes modifications and adds repititions and gets excited that if I turn my writs this way I will be working my triceps and if I turn it that way I am working my bicepts. I kid you not, people, he actually gets his kicks out of this.
I try to do a polite, "Oh, thanks so much but I don't want to keep you." He doesn't fall for it. "What the heck, I'm here anyway. I'm happy to help."
I then start to pray that Ben, who is in the gym's childcare, will have separation anxiety or a poopy diaper or a sudden 105 degree fever - anything to get me out of there. But, no, Ben continues to be Ben. Never a wimper. No trouble. Always happy. Argh!
So, I'm stuck. DBT then takes me over to the big balls, has me put my ankles on the ball, lift up my back and butt, and squeeze the ball in towards my butt. So now I am not only trying to do this exercise properly, but I am trying to not let him see how much this KILLS me, and how much my ass is shaking under the strain. And, oh, guess what? He tells me this exercise has a tendency to give people gas. So, I'm trying to lift my butt, squeeze my butt, breathe and not fart. Great.
I really have to have a talk with him. Because my idea of a great workout is riding the bikes for 1/2 hour while I'm reading People Magazine and then grabbing a latte and a scone afterwards. I do not like this DBT one bit.