LA Fitness

The notion of working out with a fitness trainer is ludicrous for a number of reasons. For one, you are completely vulnerable while exercising. You're tired, sidetracked and as good as deaf with your iPod blasting Chris Brown (I love you Chris Brown *air kiss*), and if you're anything like me, after about ten minutes of squats, your legs are like Jello ... you know, the Cosby kind that won't stop jiggling? Just because you're paying $60 plus a session, you are supposed to trust this gorilla juice head (who is basically a complete stranger) with your life. Are they really going to grab that bar before it smashes your pretty little face in? Are they ready to snatch all one hundred and two pounds of you off the treadmill when it's on mountain climb mode and going so fast that you happen to fly off? What if you get distracted by the TV when you should be watching your legs and you accidently squat so low you sprain your gluteus maximus? Yeah, I paid attention in health class. IF your beloved trainer ever did for whatever reason decide to turn on you, it would be so easy. Think about it; while they're saving their precious energy, humbly yet supportively standing at the side of your stair step machine, grinning like an idiot while asking you a number of irrelevant questions when they know damn right you can't talk (who do they think they are, your dentist?), all the while you're sweating like some kind of farm animal and seconds from blacking out; it's the perfect time to strike. And come on ... am I the only one wondering if all trainers really hate fast food and have a deep passion for working out, or do the employees of McDonalds (which happens to be right next door to the gym) actually know them AND their "number six large with fries and a coke" by name? Maybe instead of exercise obsessed, they just happen to be savvy in the weight lifting department and are naturally thin, absurdly good looking former cheerleaders. You decide; you're the one paying them to make YOU sexy. Ok, OK ... correction. I'M sexy and I'M the one paying them.

I met my trainer for the first time today, and he just so happened to be one of the absurdly good looking cheerleader types and to my horror greatly resembled Chris Brown. Now, you would think that would make me thrilled, a little hot and incredibly motivated but it was just the opposite. Now I'm nervous; here I am, hair tossed up, teeth brushed (thank god), not exactly dressed to impress and with little make-up on. I just KNEW my deodorant attempt was doomed to failure even though I had my seven dollar "comes in a box" Sport Active Secret generously applied. But, I got the impression my Chris Brown look-a-like couldn't have cared less about any of that, although I'm sure he appreciated my clean teeth because I ended up smiling a lot more than I thought I would. I was embarrassingly sore from my twenty-two knee push ups the day before during my evaluation, and instead of making fun of me, he was careful not to push me too hard. He was knowledgeable and super helpful. He was a little bossy, making me take water breaks constantly. Of course I never considered the fact that I might get thirsty, so resorted to drinking out of the gym water fountains. It brought me back to grade school and I couldn't help but wonder if my trainer was checking out my butt while I was bent over drinking; I chose the highest of the two fountains and gulped fast JUST in case.

So I AM excited about my twice a week training schedule ... and yes, I have complete faith that Mr. Brown (aka Marcus) would indeed catch that bar before it got a chance to smash my pretty face, maybe even while quietly humming "forever."