Years before Rain was born, Tim & I had an agreement: if I ever became pregnant, he would guarantee me two things.
1. A subscription to a healthy pregnancy magazine, so I would feel too guilty to put on 60 lbs
2. Once the baby was born, a personal trainer for a month (after my doctor cleared me to exercise again, of course)
If I had any sense at all, I would've asked for a handmaiden, but nevertheless, so it was. I did receive my magazines as promised, and they did guilt me out as expected. Now it was time to collect on the second half of my bargain. Last week, I signed up at my local YMCA. I paid for three sessions with a personal trainer, with the expectation I would do more as needed. Saturday morning at 11 a.m. was our first training session.
Children, listen to Grandma Dowdel: know your weight before you do an assessment with a personal trainer. If you can, get your body fat number, too. That way, you can skip the shock stage of grief and go right to comfort like I did, "Yeah, I know it's pretty bad. But, you know, well." Head shaking followed as I tried to sympathize with my trainer on the load of work she had ahead of her as she attempted to get my rump back into shape.
Apparently, though, her idea was to have me do most of the work. Instead of having me walk a few laps and slowly getting me used to working out again, she had me on a treadmill huffing and puffing. She said she was trying to make a challenging routine for me. She'd adjust the settings and say things like, "On a scale of 1 to 10--"
"Nine! Nine!" And so went the next hour. I ran on the track (something I stopped doing early in my pregnancy), and later, fumbled around trying to find a rhythm on the elliptical machine. I was sweating more than was necessary, and I had forgotten my water bottle at home. I was, by far, the most unfit person in the room.
All in all, a good experience.
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