Monkey See, Monkey Do
My subscription to the new gym comes with a complimentary session with a personal trainer, which I had today. After filling some forms and answering some basic questions about my health, I walked into my personal trainer's office and we started doing a little talk. He wasn't just filled with muscles, but also plenty of smiles.
He read my answers and proceeded with a little motivational speech about how working out would increase one's level of energy together with a healthy diet and so on and so forth. He then asked me what was my motivation for coming to the gym: "pussy" was my instant reply, which he wrote down. Then he asked what my goals were, and my reply came as an instinct: "Pussy", and again he wrote it down. He prompted me to think what good things could the gym bring into my life: "pussy" (that was an easy one), a word that he wrote down with only one "s". Finally he asked me what do I wanted to get out of the whole gym experience, and before I could answer I saw with the corner of my eye that he was writing down "pussy", so I twisted my answer to say "a hell of a lot of pussy man!". We both burst in laughs. He then leaned towards me while looking over his shoulder, lowered his voice, and told me that this whole "personal trainer" bullshit was just that, bullshit. He runs a "little operation" with very beautiful and very discrete ladies which refer to him as the "Master Pimp" and that he was gona make sure all those answers will come true. . .
So what really happened was that after answering those silly questions I walked into his office and then the motivational speech came and blah blah blah. He said that before we started he wanted to measure my body fat and body mass index (BMI). He handed me a little device that looked like a little steering wheel, the handles were covered with some sort of steel, and asked me to hold it. He entered my information (sex, age, weight and height), pressed a little "start" button and asked me to read aloud to him the numbers that will come up on the screen. The device had two little screens and when the numbers pop up I asked which number he wanted first. "The one on top, which is gona be your body fat" -he said.
I read to him out loud "eight point four". He turned around with a quick "what?!" and took the device from my hands. Think about pulling a rabbit out of my hat right there and the look in his eyes; I thought for a second that I was sick, inches away from the great beyond. Of course he saw in my eyes that I'd just freaked out and proceeded to explain that that was the first time someone scored so low. No shit dude, with so many fat people in this city I even wondered if that little device had enough digits to measure their fat! He even had the nerve to ask me if I don't get too cold during Winter. . . I wanted to tell him about my love affair with cold weather but I really wanted to go and burn some energy instead of talking about how peculiar I am. My BMI turned out to be 21 according to my 5'7/138lbs which is within the right range, but a bit low according to him.
So after that little meeting I jumped in the treadmill for a nice run, followed by a lot of painful exercises with weights and machines. I told him about my goal of getting some "killer abs" and he made me do some shit that really hurt my poor belly. The third abs exercise was to sit on this huge beach ball-like and do some small sit ups. It looked very easy but after the third one I was shaking like if I was having an epileptic attack.
At the end, when I wasexhausted mildly tired, we had a chat and I decided to hire him as my very personal trainer; just like one of those Hollywood stars out there. But we're gona have only three sessions, each one month apart. I want to be able to see *some* results not just in front of the mirror while shaving in the mornings, but I want to be able to measure whatever progress I could achieve. I certainly don't need someone beside me acting like a cheerleader and saying that I'm doing great and that I have six more repetitions to go and to keep going strong and blah blah blah. If I cannot find the inner strength and discipline to show up in the gym as often and with the intensity of my new year's resolutions, then I'm just not gym material and a lost cause. Period.
This visit to the gym today taught me two things: first of all, that I'm just blowing money like if that shit grows in a tree. Better to slow down before I have to go and, er, donate blood for few extra bucks maybe? Or perhaps go and sell my. . . you know, my. . . male stuff? -which by the way I have plenty of it these days!
And it also thought me that a diet rich in pasta and tons of Parmesan cheese, together with one apple a day, lots of whole milk,an incredible active sexual life and a lot of alcohol during weekends, would allow you to have a lean, mean, and thin fat-free figure like cool Jean-Fran! Have to celebrate this coming weekend with large doses of alcohol and several strips of grease bacon to crank up my level of body fat.
He read my answers and proceeded with a little motivational speech about how working out would increase one's level of energy together with a healthy diet and so on and so forth. He then asked me what was my motivation for coming to the gym: "pussy" was my instant reply, which he wrote down. Then he asked what my goals were, and my reply came as an instinct: "Pussy", and again he wrote it down. He prompted me to think what good things could the gym bring into my life: "pussy" (that was an easy one), a word that he wrote down with only one "s". Finally he asked me what do I wanted to get out of the whole gym experience, and before I could answer I saw with the corner of my eye that he was writing down "pussy", so I twisted my answer to say "a hell of a lot of pussy man!". We both burst in laughs. He then leaned towards me while looking over his shoulder, lowered his voice, and told me that this whole "personal trainer" bullshit was just that, bullshit. He runs a "little operation" with very beautiful and very discrete ladies which refer to him as the "Master Pimp" and that he was gona make sure all those answers will come true. . .
So what really happened was that after answering those silly questions I walked into his office and then the motivational speech came and blah blah blah. He said that before we started he wanted to measure my body fat and body mass index (BMI). He handed me a little device that looked like a little steering wheel, the handles were covered with some sort of steel, and asked me to hold it. He entered my information (sex, age, weight and height), pressed a little "start" button and asked me to read aloud to him the numbers that will come up on the screen. The device had two little screens and when the numbers pop up I asked which number he wanted first. "The one on top, which is gona be your body fat" -he said.
I read to him out loud "eight point four". He turned around with a quick "what?!" and took the device from my hands. Think about pulling a rabbit out of my hat right there and the look in his eyes; I thought for a second that I was sick, inches away from the great beyond. Of course he saw in my eyes that I'd just freaked out and proceeded to explain that that was the first time someone scored so low. No shit dude, with so many fat people in this city I even wondered if that little device had enough digits to measure their fat! He even had the nerve to ask me if I don't get too cold during Winter. . . I wanted to tell him about my love affair with cold weather but I really wanted to go and burn some energy instead of talking about how peculiar I am. My BMI turned out to be 21 according to my 5'7/138lbs which is within the right range, but a bit low according to him.
So after that little meeting I jumped in the treadmill for a nice run, followed by a lot of painful exercises with weights and machines. I told him about my goal of getting some "killer abs" and he made me do some shit that really hurt my poor belly. The third abs exercise was to sit on this huge beach ball-like and do some small sit ups. It looked very easy but after the third one I was shaking like if I was having an epileptic attack.
At the end, when I was
This visit to the gym today taught me two things: first of all, that I'm just blowing money like if that shit grows in a tree. Better to slow down before I have to go and, er, donate blood for few extra bucks maybe? Or perhaps go and sell my. . . you know, my. . . male stuff? -which by the way I have plenty of it these days!
And it also thought me that a diet rich in pasta and tons of Parmesan cheese, together with one apple a day, lots of whole milk,
Jean-Francois was drunk at 10:09 PM
2 Comments:
yep that's exactly how my obsession with bacon cheddar cheeseburgers began. i also was "the lowest number" my "fitness evaluator" had seen - 7.2 or something like that. except i had to stand barefoot on this scale-looking machine and she pressed a button and an electric current ran though me measuring my body fat somehow.
ps. i'm not sure if they were killer abs, but they weren't bad. and the hair; i guess i could say it might have been red, but red like my father's hair: more red to him than to anyone else.
Ha! that hair description sounds like mine: really more red to me, but I still like to refer to myself as a R-H. And a bacon cheddar cheeseburger... yummy!
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