I Shaved My Legs For This

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on September 20, 2009.)

And I also paid an arm and a leg. Which I am pretty sure is exactly what Ashley The Trainer plans on removing from my body should I slack off on the training plan she is developing for me. Now, Ashley is a lovely girl, but Ashley doesn’t have a horrendous ohmyfeckinggawd amount of weight to lose. Its bad. Very bad. The "how the hell did it get to be like that" bad.

Bit of a back story. Last Monday there was a family barbeque at my place while my grandfather and his wife, the step granmonster, were in town. At the end of the night, after a rather scathing yet philosophical discussion on the girth of some family members (as well as their various states of mental psychosis and need for medication), my cousin Mike, his girlfriend Annie and I decided enough was enough and it was time to hit the gym. No more excuses, just be in it to win it. We joined the gym on Wednesday and after today, I’m fairly certain I’ve joined a cult.

Dateline Wednesday:

First, there was Nathan. Oh nicely done gym that rhymes with furled wealth tub… send the kid that looks like Michael Buble (I certainly would), blushes easily, laughs at all my jokes, and has dimples to obligate me to this workout business while separating me from my hard earned cash. Smoother than the Scientologists…

Then there was Andy with his adaptation phase, his hyper phase and the other phase (which is currently being remembered as the triage phase), and his “really hardcore energy” that made me pray to the gawd of all gym rats that this pint-sized torpedo didn’t end up a] having an aneurysm at my feet and b] didn’t end up as my trainer. Think of Tommy Girl jumping on the Mighty Opes’ sofa but in a blue vest, black t-shirt, with a binder full of sales pitches in his hands… or one of those jay-dub door knocking types with the “good word”, hopped up on heroin… Ya, it was like that.

Finally, I was handed over to Ashley The Trainer who also happens to be Nathan’s girlfriend. Do you see how this is all coming full circle? It was all getting a bit incestuous for me and I was fairly certain that now that they had my money and a new “home” for me, the plans for my “really hardcore” indoctrination were about to be rolled out. Lucky me, they had mercy. There wouldn’t be any purple robes or signs brought in telling me about the benefits of silence and aliens. No. I could wait until Friday for that... and my first session with Ashley The Trainer. Great, a whole day and a half to marinate in my fate. Totally sucked a bag of dicks. And it was the perfect excuse to go to Capital Pizza for the French onion soup and vegetarian lasagna. We all agreed, it was like the Last Supper, but with membership fees and fitter disciples.

Dateline Thursday:

OMFG what have I got myself into? And how good is this left over lasagna???? I’m fucked, I just know it.

Dateline Friday:

Now, I’ve been asked to do some crazy things in my life and I have actually complied on most occasions because I am a bit whackjob crazy and cos, hey, that’s how I roll, yo. But how would you respond if a complete stranger, dressed in spandex pants asked you to take off your right shoe, your right sock, and lay down on the table? You would probably tell the weirdo to eff off and book it in the other direction. Me, not so much. Not only did I stay and follow orders, I told Ashley The Trainer I was ripping her line off and at some point would be using it to my advantage. She weighed me, measured me, laughed at my jokes and then gave me the bad news in pounds. I knew it was going to be ugly but Fuuuuuuuck. It’s another person. Kinda. It’s a child for sure. Daaaaaamn! It was getting late, I was depressed as fuck, and we parted ways for the night with a promise that I would be back on Sunday.

Dateline Saturday:

Got crazy? Oh I do. Not only was I not obligated to be at the gym, I wanted to go. Couldn’t wait to get there. For serious. For really really serious. Treadmill? 25 minutes. Bike? 25 minutes. Knees? Cleverly disguised as jello. Me? Batshit crazy for this stuff. Couldn’t wait to go back on Sunday and I don’t mean that facetiously either. I was trashed but felt good. This is how they get you, isn’t it… they lull you into a false sense of security, let you know the worst is over and that the rest is gonna be great? Oh and that guaranteed weight loss thing they swing in front of you like the golden carrot, can’t forget that. I’m telling you, it’s not a gym, it’s a temple for the toned. I swear. And I’m up in this mutha.

Dateline Sunday:

Don’t ask me what I did, don’t ask me what machines I used because it went by fast and I seriously can’t remember. I walked to the gym and was a bit early so I started on the treadmill. After that, Ashley The Trainer chased me around. And around. And made me do push-ups. Which I suck ass at, along with lunges and squats which I suck harder at. I know she’s trying to kill me, I called her on it too. Her response was a smile and “Fifteen more please”. Sickness, I tell you, sickness. You want to know the sickest part of all? The real kick in the crotch? I thanked Ashley The Trainer for it. Thanked. Her.

Out of the last five days, I have been in that building four times. Four. Christ on a crutch, my conversion has begun and I plan to be there tomorrow too.

So there you have it. At the end of the day, I did shave my legs for this. But being a woman of a particular age, it will likely be Friday before I have to shave again.

Which is EXACTLY when my next ass-kicking from Ashley The Trainer is scheduled.