Monday, September 13, 2010

Dem Bones, Dem Bones...

Soon after we moved here, I joined a local gym and started working out with a trainer. This was a new experience for me, but after I got over the pain of the first three weeks, I was hooked. My trainer was great and before long I was feeling really good; healthy and strong. Sadly, for me, he completed his Master's Degree in Kinesiology and graduated. I was bereft. I tried a new trainer, but we didn’t mesh. I got injured and couldn’t work out for a while. Since I never really hit it off with the ‘new’ trainer, the healing break turned into 2 years. Ugh!

I finally reached my limit of feeling out of shape and decided it’s time to get back in the groove. I started asking around.  I talked to a friend about, Becky, the trainer she's been working out with this year.  Becky and I met last Thursday for a consultation and the vibe was good.  Today, the torture workouts began. Oh, my!  I thought I was prepared.  I thought I remembered what it was like to start up a new exercise program. Wrong.

Now, like most other people, I used to have bones in my legs. As a matter of fact, I still had them as of 9:00 this morning. Real, hard bones…femur, patella, tibia, fibula…the whole set. The kind of bones that support you when you walk.  Then, I had my first session with Becky.  Now my bones more closely resemble this:

It started out easy enough. She showed up at my house and we went for a brisk, 10-minute walk. Easy, peasy. Heart rate is up, feeling warm, feeling good. Came back inside and headed upstairs to the kid’s playroom where there is some open space. We did some squats, some lunges with a medicine ball. Now my legs are feeling a little shaky. “Okay,” she says, “let’s do some more cardio. Where’s that bike?”  When we met for our consultation, I made the mistake of telling her that we own a recumbent bike. A bike my husband, The Professor, bought when he was training for a marathon. I hate that bike. From this day forward, the bike will be referred to by its true name: Satan.

Satan lives in the basement, as all good monsters should. The basement. You know, DOWNSTAIRS. I’m on the second floor in the playroom. That means I have to go down a flight to the main floor and then down one more flight to the basement. “So what?” you say, “What’s the big deal?” Well, I’ll tell you. The squats and lunges had done their evil magic. My thigh bones were gone. Well, not GONE, exactly.  Transformed.  Transformed into something very non-bonelike.  Something soft and quivery and helpless.  Jell-o.

Over the next 45 minutes, I had to make that descent three times.  By the third time, I was gripping the handrail and hoping I didn't have to resort to crawling.  I hope my bones solidify before Thursday.