Me and My Sort-of-Trainer

So, about a month ago, I dropped Carter off at the kiddo’s playroom in the gym and noticed a steady stream of mommies walking to some class. I approached Chrissy, my barometer of health and fitness, and asked her if I really did need to do “Athletic Conditioning.” She and my conscience said yes. I remembered seeing those people, those Athletic Conditioners, while contentedly running on the treadmill. They looked sick and pale and nauseous. And I was about to join their ranks.

Enter Melanie, the trainer whose name has been changed in case I and my blog get famous. Little tiny brunette who just did a spinning class. Because Athletic Conditioning isn’t enough of a workout. As the music brought me back to my clubbing days (those two), Melanie promised us we’d taste our breakfast. So started my relationship with my sort-of-trainer.

The first session I remained somewhat anonymous. Except for my friend Elizabeth, no one knew the new girl who was screwing up her biometrics. The next 4 days, I should have gotten a UTI—I hardly peed cause it hurt so bad to sit down on the toilet. Second session, Melanie decided to learn my name. Awesome. I kind of, sort of, wanted her approval. And it really felt like she cared when she screamed at me to finish my lunges. Third week, I skipped. And hoped Melanie wouldn’t notice.

And then I realized that sometime along this journey I’d reverted to first grade. Mrs. Miller was my first grade teacher (omigosh, she even looked like Melanie), and I so desperately wanted Mrs. Miller’s approval. I don’t think I’m desperate in wanting my trainer’s approval (you see that? I went from being in a class of 20 to having a personal trainer). I just know that I think about her opinion way too much.

Like when we were doing some tricep thing. When she was on the other side of the room, I slacked off. Or while sprinting. When she was watching me, you can bet I took it up a notch to 6.4. And then today. Didn’t have class, but I stopped by for a quick upper body workout. While on the treadmill for my warmup, Melanie walked by.

“Hey, April—Come on, run it out!!”

I hate the treadmill. I watch those little digital seconds go by and don’t waste a second more than I’ve promised the machine when I’m done. But Melanie just walked by. And I had only 10 seconds left. So, I clocked another minute till she was out of sight.

Sick, maybe. I’ll figure it out.