Working Out

As I type this, I am sitting here thinking that the only muscles not hurting are the ones in my fingers. And my calves. My hamstrings are okay. And my glutes. But everything else? I feel like I've had whole body whiplash. Why? Because I started my sessions with a personal trainer yesterday.

I received a gift certificate from my beloved for my birthday for some sessions with a personal trainer. Now, before you go thinking that he is a horrible husband and a neanderthal, let me assure you that he only gave me what I asked for. He asked me what I wanted and I told him that I would like to have some time with a trainer who can help me get myself back into shape. Trust me when I say that he asked me about 467 times if I was sure that was what I wanted. He kept telling me that it felt like he was giving me an appliance or something equally unlovely. (Actually, I asked for a stand mixer for Christmas and he gave me one. What can I say? I am practical. Perhaps I should start asking for different things? A trip to Ireland?) I reminded him that I asked for it. It's not like he was giving it to me and dropping a hint into my lap at the same time. He told me that when he went to the Y and bought the sessions, he made sure to tell the ladies behind the counter that it was my request. I think he was afraid they would come after him in the parking lot.

So. After a few weeks of trying to work out the schedule, I met with my trainer last week for a consultation and to set some goals. And yesterday was the day. It was good. And horrible. And exciting. And tiring. And stimulating. And exhausting. I discovered that I could both do more and less than I thought I could. Does that make sense? The trainer was great and I can't wait to meet with her again. But today I am, as predicted, sore, but not so sore that I can't move. In fact, I'll be heading back to the Y this morning to do some torture cardio. Should be a blast. What with the fact that my quads have decided to go on strike. Seriously. Walking upstairs last night? I didn't know I was grunting until my children mocked me. Then this morning I discovered myself grunting on the way downstairs. Yes, things should be interesting this morning.

I thought that I might start painting our living room this week, but the thought of trying to climb a ladder and also kneel down to paint along the baseboard is anything but appealing right now. Actually doing the 37 metric tons of laundry waiting for me upstairs sounds more doable. Although it does have me cursing my beloved 2nd floor laundry room.

Maybe after I work out, I'll just mentally fold the laundry while I sit on the couch and watch Mad Men on Netflix. Oh, and my shower is upstairs too. But you know what? My 7 year old tells me that hygiene is overrated. Perhaps she's right.