Never Let Them See You Sweat

My life has been dedicated to the goal of never breaking a sweat, and so far, I have been pretty successful.

Admittedly, there have been random deviations over the years. Temporary bouts of insanity like in the 80's when Jane Fonda had us all wearing neon spandex and hopping around like rabbits on a bad acid trip, or more recently, when I decided that if I danced with the stars, I too could look like Edyta or Karina.

The only redeeming quality about exercising to these tapes is that the machine is equipped with a stop button. Over the years, I've gotten really good at warm-ups, but as far as I know, the actual exercise and cool-down portions are just urban myths.

For the past few years, I thought I'd found the holy grail with yoga; the perfect balance between exercise and inertia. But no. Lying down and visualizing your breath expanding your rib cage does not translate into abs of steel. Go figure.

And so, I decided it might be time to try something I have pretty successfully avoided my whole life...actual, consistent exercise. To this end, Tim got me ten sessions with a real, live personal trainer for my birthday, who, regrettably, has no off button.

It all started out innocently enough. She seemed nice and kind, like she would have pity on an out-of-shape slug. When she showed up for our introductory meeting, she didn't seem intimidating or like someone who could make me cry. I was wrong.

Lesson one in personal trainer school must be lulling your gullible victims into a false sense of security.

We chatted about goals(looking like Jennifer Aniston), expectations(looking like something other than a life-size pear), and health concerns(that exercise would kill me). She took my measurements (after which I had to consume a lot of chocolate to soothe me and help me forget) , and did some small sample moves to test for balance and muscle tone (there was none).

By the time she left, I felt...encouraged, hopeful, even maybe a little excited.

Then she came back last week for our first two sessions.

As she unloaded the instruments of torture from the car, I felt the excitement drain away. Hope became a distant memory. What had I been thinking, asking for this? How could Tim not have seem my request for what it actually was...a cry for help? I needed counselling and liposuction, not free weights and balance balls. But it was too late.

For the next hour, she made me lunge, lift, squeeze and push. I began to really hate the number 15. 10...11...12...I think she was adding numbers in between because I was getting to 15 reps before she even got to ten.

And why, once we finish an exercise do we need to go back to it? Shouldn't we just hit 15 reverse flys or push-ups and be done...forever? What about lying down and breathing for 15...minutes. I suggested adding that on after each new exercise, but it didn't go over so well.

"You can do this," she would say. "Look, you've got a little bicep already." Okay. Good. Then we're done here. Mission accomplished. Thanks for coming.

"We're going to hold this pose now for 10...9...8... We? Who is we? I didn't see her hold the pose for a ten count. And could she count any slower? Instead of 10 Mississippi, 9 Mississippi, I think she was trying to name all fifty states in between numbers including the territories and District of Columbia. I began to suspect that Tim had not hired a personal trainer, but a hit man. I was going to have to check my life insurance policy and see how much I was worth.

Eventually though each hour came to an end. As I crawled into the shower and wept, I tried to console myself with the fact that I was getting healthy and would eventually be able to step on a scale without running screaming into the night. My triceps would no longer flap around when I waved like laundry on a clothesline during a monsoon. Spanks would no longer be a staple in my wardrobe. I wouldn't need oxygen after climbing a flight of stairs.

But then the next morning would come and as I crawled out of bed and limped toward the bathroom, I became more convinced than ever that I was right in the first place.

Exercise is evil.