I'm supposed to have my official author photograph taken in a couple of weeks. Judging from this site, all I need to do is ride the bus, lean against a wall, and/or prop myself on the occasional empty park bench, then wait for someone to come along, realize I'm a brilliant author, and take my picture.
But I don't much like the bus, so I guess I'll go the formal route and actually plan things out. I might even look AT the camera, but now I'm wondering if that will cost me my author cred? Oh that's right, I'm writing a memoir. I have no cred :)
In anticipation of this photographic extravaganza, Steve and I broke down and hired a trainer to help us shed the pounds of wedded bliss that have accumulated around our middles since I (finally) learned to cook. (There's a possibility that our bodies simply learned to stockpile calories during that first year because they weren't sure when they would next see nutrients in a digestible form. But anyway...) We were looking a little too much like the manatees from my last post for our comfort, so we decided to take drastic action.
The thing about working with a trainer is, whatever dignity you thought you had while working out is stripped away. You can't just do the exercises you're good at, the ones that make you look like you know what you're doing. I wasn't under much of an illusion that I could pull that off to begin with. I frequently drop my water bottle on the treadmill or get my towel caught in the pedals of the elliptical machine. Three days ago I managed to bump into three different pieces of apparatus on my way to a weight lifting class. Honestly, I don't even get embarrassed anymore. But I tend to avoid things that might cause me to, say, sprawl out across the entire floor, or give myself a concussion.
But last night took uncoordination to a whole new level. Trainer John (who apparently was in need of a good laugh) decided we were ready for a whole bevy of multi-part workout techniques, like situps with boxing gloves, pushups while rolling a ten-inch ball back and forth between our hands, and squats while perched precariously on a semi-circle, holding giant hand weights as we bobbed up and down. (A word of caution to anyone who might be contemplating scanty attire for that first trip back to the gym: there is no graceful way to exit ANY of these exercises, and no way to keep your secrets hidden without plenty of that stretchy lycra wrapped from stem to stern. Lesson learned.)
Despite the indignity, Steve and I persevered, pushed along by the inspirational words of this singer. Through it all I convinced myself that the extra calories burned trying to dismount and/or disentangle myself from the various equiptment would catapult me toward my fitness goals, and I'd wake up this morning sleek and trim - possibly with a tan.
Instead I discovered that I shrunk my pants in the dryer.
Perhaps this weekend I'll try Swishy Girl's approach to fitness.