Last week, I met with Gunnar, the Viking trainer man. I had one free training session that was included with my gym membership – but wound up not signing up for the real deal, because I refuse to pay $50/hour to be tortured.
At one point, I said, “Gunnar, you are KILLING me.”
He replied, “No, Annie – I’m IMPROVING you.” Then he had me do squats so rapid and forceful, it looked like I was driving a stake into the ground with my ass.
He put me on one of those slanted sit-up racks – the ones where your head is lower than your hips, as if to prevent pre-term labor. Under those conditions, a single crunch would be difficult enough – but then he put a 25 pound weight on my chest and told me to sit up.
I held lunges and planks. I jumped onto a metal box over and over. I scissor-kicked. I swung dumb-bells into the air, knowing that one sweaty-palmed slip would result in the death of an innocent by-standing body-builder. In short, I did things that no self-respecting person would do in public.
When it was all said and done, my entire body was quivering. I was like a terrified stray dog, completely incapable of self-calming – barely able to stand up, let alone walk back to the desk to talk nutrition.
Gunnar told me that to reach my fitness goals, I could eat no more than 1400 calories a day.
“But… how many do YOU get to have?” I asked.
“4500,” he answered.
Then the Lord and I had a chat about the injustice of it all.