The Seventh Level Of Hell

So, I had my fourth session with the Evil Trainer, included in the deal when I signed up. This time, it only took me ten minutes to exit the car, which is a five minute improvement over the last time. Sure, might not seem like much to you -- you know, a normal person -- but to me, that is almost as huge as the inches or weight I've lost so far. I still can't go in to the gym on my own (as in no trainer and no BFF) but I'm working on it.

He's always so perky, this guy. It's irritating, but not really. He seems invested in my success, which I'm sure is related to the pricing sheet he showed me after the workout for additional sessions. But I'll get to that in a minute.

He almost killed me. I mean, he made me RUN! I didn't even know I could run. Of course, the sight of a fat lady who doesn't run unless someone big and ugly is chasing her (and then it depends on how ugly and if they're toting some kind of weapon, like ninja stars or a spiked club) was probably quite comical. My back was really sore after Thursday's workout, and I knew it was going to scream. And it did. Loudly. The Evil Trainer was fantastic about modifying certain exercises he had planned (probably staying up well into the night, rubbing his hands gleefully and drooling on his exercise sheet) to minimize the strain. We worked arms and legs, and after the first fifteen minutes I was wishing I'd been born without limbs of any kind. Except maybe tentacles. Tentacles would be cool.

"You're tough," he said. "You got this. We got this." No, motherheifer, what YOU'RE going to get is a painful, messy, gory, PAINFUL death in my next novel. This I swear to the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster. At the workout bar, where he proceeded to torture me with modified chin-ups and pushups, I almost cried. And then I said to myself, "Self? YOU ARE NOT CRYING IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING GYM, OKAY? NO." And I did not. But it was close. This whole process is such an emotional one for me, which is most likely another reason I have avoided it as long as I have. But anyway...

After the workout, we proceeded to the most painful part of the session. The financial part.

Holy shit, this guy is expensive. Like, take-my-breath-away or your-ass-must-be-made-of-gold expensive. Like, there's-no-way-in-hell-I-can-afford-this expensive. I totally understand. He's a professional and he has knowledge I do not. He has managed the impossible so far -- getting me to work out, encouraging me to the point where I think I can do this, enduring many exclamations of how much I hate him and putting up with smart-assery on a nuclear scale and even the nickname of Evil Little Fucker. (He said that would make him an ELF and he'd love that on a t-shirt.) It's not the ordinary man who can handle me, but he does it with humor and grace I did not expect.

I know I can't do this on my own. Not yet. So I looked over his pricing sheet and despaired.

I explained my situation -- being freelance, some months I'm okay and others I'm dodging disconnect notices. It's the nature of the beast, and I accept that about my chosen career. I keep my expenses low and my workload high (which landed me in this physical position in the first place, I suppose). The thought of taking on an expense equivalent to a car payment was enough to make me want to vomit and it's just not going to happen.

He made a counter-offer. I said I would think it over. He said no matter what, every two weeks, even if I went on to do this on my own, he would work out with me. (The cynical side of me says sure you will, and try to talk me into more sessions, but honestly, he seems sincere and I do possess a pretty good Bullshit Meter.) I know I won't do as well as I could without his services, although he was throwing out tips and advice on how to do it on my own, and that he knew I had this. Which I do not. Not yet.

Now, I am no stranger to retail, and this is a retail business. On my way out, I caught up with the Big Guy who manages the place. I really like him -- except for the fact he exposed me to this torture in the first place -- and even gave him an autographed copy of my book, which he is currently reading and enjoying immensely. :)  We talked a bit about how it was going, and the fact continuing with a trainer was a little bit out of my reach (like those dishes on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, which will probably never be used and will stay there forever unless I get a ladder). He said he sure understood, and was this close >< to going into the sales spiel when I painfully raised my hand (amazed I could raise it at all) and said, "Nuh-uh. Don't bother. I already know what you're going to say, and dude, I'm a hard sell."

"No you aren't," he says.

I chuckled. "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. I spent years in retail. I know how it works. I make salespeople cry."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I can. Because I only buy what I WANT to buy, not what someone WANTS me to buy. People see my baby face and think I'm stupid and underestimate me which not only pisses me off but kills the sale every time."

He shook his head. "It's not the face. It's the voice. You have the sweetest voice I've ever heard."

Heh. Nice try.

I hobbled out to my car, convinced I am in the Seventh Level of Hell. I'm in so much pain if I fall onto the asphalt right now, they'd have to call 9-1-1 and the crane. Because I'm fairly certain if I fall I will be unable to rise on my own, struggling like a beetle on its back. The best thing about my 1997 Buick? HEATED SEATS. I think that's the only thing that saved me. Once I arrived home, upon the advice of one of my Facebook friends (oh thank you!! May the blessings of the GFSM rain down upon you!) I drank a glass of apple juice and about a quart of water (pushing the vision of what fish do in it firmly A-WAY).

Another Facebook friend informed me the Ninth Level of Hell awaits tomorrow. And probably the next day. Thank you, Facebook friend. I was afraid of that. No blessings from the GFSM for you, sorry.  *sigh*

At any rate, I'm going to crunch numbers and see what I can come up with. If I can possibly work this out, I will, because I don't want to lose forward momentum after a lifetime of failing at this. I meet with the Evil Trainer for a half-hour assessment on Thursday, and I'm taking my BFF with me. If he thinks I'm a handful, he ain't seen nothing yet.

She's from Chicago too, you Evil Little Fucker, and it's ON. Oh, it's so ON.

I'm bringing the big guns.

I'm cracking up already. Hee!