Yes,You Need A Personal Trainer/Coach.

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B0Man

This is Brian. Brian is a Turd..er Coach.  He makes me laugh, cry, swear and pissed off  He is my greatest advocate, healer, teacher and fitness friend as well.  All of this is for the greater good known as: “Babs Becoming BEAST” 

In case you’ve ever wondered what goes through the mind of anyone with a personal trainer, this sums it up nicely. There is a fine balance between “Oh Yeah…let’s do this shit” and “This may be the reason I’m in a motorized cart for the rest of my life”.

 

My husband battles with understanding the importance and worth of a personal trainer.  Every month. When the billing hits our checking account. Like clockwork.  It’s Battle Royale of the “Why is this necessary?  You don’t get anything from it?!  It’s just time with a trainer?”

Well, my husband of 10 years who should know by now that I remember every single frivolous purchase you’ve made in the past 15 years, Personal Training / Fitness Coaching will be the most Tangible yet Intangible time you will buy.  What you actually get is so much more than time.

I was reading the posts from Fat Girl Wunning and I was hit with one of my “why’s” Why do I put myself through the soreness?  Why do I fork out cold card earned cash every month for my Coach?  This is WHY:

Personal Trainers are Motivators, Dictators, Friends and Mortal Enemies. They are exactly what we need to push ourselves to the new limits required to meet our goals. It may feel like we’re dying, but they would never push us to injury or harm. They will however make you swear like a sailor and sweat like a hooker in church.

Check out Fat Girl Wunnings recent musings with her personal trainer. They are brilliantly hilarious…and real life.

Fat Girl Wunning

So in my last entry, I wrote about how all I do is complain to Franz, and when it really hurts, he doesn’t believe me.  Well, after that blog came out, a loyal reader (Hey, Katie!) suggested that we come up with a safe word to use.  You know, the one word that I’m allowed to use to tell him that NO I’M DEAD SERIOUS, I’M DYING.

When I walked into training on that Wednesday, I proposed this idea to him, and he laughed.  Then we both threw out words to use… at the same time.  His was ‘Nutella’.  Mine was ‘Marshmallow’.  The first thing I thought was, I need a s’more.

After this, he proceeded to kick my ass, and I couldn’t use my legs for two days, and I never did get my s’more.

By the way, when Katie suggested I use a safe word, she also…

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I was an Adult Today.

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IMG_3675I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up in the small town of Grafton, North Dakota, we used the word coffee as a verb.  You didn’t go to visit, you went to coffee.  This inevitably meant cups of coffee around a dining room or kitchen table and chatter about everything in the county.

Today’s noun as a verb is ADULT.  eg.  I don’t want to ADULT today.  ha! right!?  not Adult’ing to me is napping…I mean what ‘adult’ is expected to nap?!  But Adult is much more than that.  It’s bills, responsibilities, errands..you know the crap you never really want to do.  I did that today.  The crap I never want to do. Oddly in the end, I feel really well accomplished.  I even read a few excerpts out of my motivational positive thinking books!

I wish I could clear off the entire fridge and just place that magnet of amazingness on my list of ADULTNESS from today! Have the heavens open up with an angelic light that says, SHE DID SOMETHING!

But I didn’t.  And it didn’t. And there is still laundry to fold.

I’m going to bed.

Burpees or Boogers….I’ll take the boogers.

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I hate boogers. phlem. spit..gack!  They will make me barf in an instant.  But Burpees?  LOATHE them.  Once I had my son Timothy, it’s like ‘mama mode’ kicked in and developed a superhero like suit between the boogers and I.  On more than one occasion I have caught myself “grabbin’ a boogie”.  No kleenex. No nothing. Just my bare hand and a boogie. This is barbaric.  It’s almost like I can hear Braveheart screaming in the background “FREEEEEEDOM!” when I actually catch my son long enough to nab it.  THEN I grab a kleenex, because obviously I’m health code dyslexic, and dispose of the evil boogie.  I stand tall, hair flowing in the wind and think to myself, “Super Mom! Fighting Grime One Boogie at a Time!” then you almost hear a record scratch as Timothy puts my entire iPhone in his mouth and starts running with scissors. joy.

The moral of this long, dysfunctional tale, is that I overcame my gag reflex with boogies.  It was like a Christmas Miracle without annoying carolers and cocoa.  But Burpees? I hate them as much as Jumping Jacks.  You know the exercise that every fat person in the 80’s did in terrible grey sweatsuits where you could see every last ounce of their fat doing the cha-cha?   I know they make our cores tight and fantastic.  I know they help our Cardiovascular endurance.  I know that more than 15 in a row will make me barf.  But I don’t think that 10 Christmas Miracles in a row will make me like or even tolerate them.  So, I will go on, cursing my trainer (outloud) whilst hoisting my arse up and down doing these satanic exercises because I know that someday, I’ll hit my goal and I’ll never have to do them again.  Instead, I’ll smuggle wine into the gym and sip it while I watch another victim of the burpee have their will to live tested.