Taking it to the Next Level

What is it with exercise people and their obsession with taking things to the next level? Recently, my trainer bumped things up to the "next level" for about the tenth time. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out what was so wrong with the first level.

Was it not enough for her that I regularly collapsed on the floor in a heap after each and every set of fifteen reps, gasping for air like a fish out of water? Wasn't she happy that I couldn't climb the stairs for a week after each session without the aid of at least three people, a lever and a pulley? Didn't she feel job satisfaction when such physically demanding tasks as, oh, it don't know, blinking and breathing became painful enough to make me seriously contemplate not?

What gave her the idea I was ready for the next level? How exactly did that thought process go?

Okay, three sets of fifteen didn't literally kill her, so let's go for five sets of twenty. Hmmm. Still able to hang on to consciousness by a thread, so let's kick it up to the next level and do eight sets of one hundred. Holding one thousand pound weights. In each hand. And to rest in between each set, she can drop it down a level and do ten sets of twenty other exercises from the I'd-rather-be-getting-a-root-canal-without-Novocain list.

I used to dread the mornings she showed up with a device called a Bosu, that I'm sure they invented during the Spanish Inquisition (basically, it is one of those big exercise balls cut in half and mounted on a plastic frame).

Like the ground wasn't hurtling toward my face fast enough with a regular, old-fashioned push-up, I now had the added challenge of trying to balance on a round, springy object without crash-landing my way to a nose reconstruction.

"Go deeper," she would urge. "Keep those hips up."

Yeah, like either one of those things were actually possible. Well, on second thought, maybe the deeper was possible, as long as I didn't have to push back up, but somehow I got the impression that wasn't what she meant.

Before I could fully recover from the upper body work though (in other words, three days bed rest), we would move on to the legs.

"Okay, you're going to do squats with one leg on the Bosu, then jump over it, landing in a squat with the other leg on the Bosu."

I'm going to do what???!!! Evidently, she had mistaken me for a frog. I barely have enough strength and coordination to manage a normal squat on solid ground, let alone squatting, hopping, and changing legs.

If I'd had so much as an ounce of strength left after the ten sets of twenty (or was it twenty sets of ten? I don't know because I lost count somewhere around two), I would have seriously considered finding an ice pick and creating a new exercise for my biceps involving the Bosu and a sharp, downward movement, then kicked it to the curb with my powerful glutes.

I tried in vain to convince my trainer that just because I no longer felt like blacking out or throwing up half-way through our sessions didn't mean I was ready for this next level. I was happy where I was, really. I didn't need to ever again wear a bathing suit that didn't have a stomach panel and skirt. And who needed sleeveless tops anyway? Air conditioning had been invented so that we would be comfortable wearing long-sleeve shirts in ninety-five degree temperatures.

She didn't buy it, and we moved on to the dreaded "next level".

I have now gone from being a frog to a kangaroo, hopping madly back and forth across my backyard, leaping and springing into the air, like I'm trying out for either the NBA or Olympic pole-vaulting team (without the pole).

"Higher," she tells me. "4001, 4002..."

Half the time she doesn't even count out loud anymore though because I think she's afraid if I hear that I'm only on ten and I have to get to 8000, I might do something drastic like hop over to the neighbor's yard and seek sanctuary.

Lunges off a Bosu? That's for sissies. The four-foot high steps down to the patio are a much better place to really work the quads. And hey, we've gone waaaay beyond using those wimpy stairs in the house for step-ups too. Now the eight-foot wall out back is just right for that treat. Oh, and let's add a karate kick and a lunge for good measure, while doing presses with two thousand pound weights, blindfolded and backwards.

I'm beginning to get nostalgic for the good old days when she would hand me a two pound weight and worry that I was going to give myself a concussion trying to lift it with both hands over my head.

The worst part though about this next level stuff is that nowadays if I survive the full hour (and it is pretty much touch and go), I can't even reward myself with coffee and chocolate. I head for the nearest bottle of water and have to debate whether I want to drink it or just pour it over my head. It's at least an hour before I can even contemplate the thought of anything else, and by then, I start to wonder if it's worth it (for the record, chocolate is always worth it, but still, I wonder). And I can't get rid of the nagging worry in the back of my mind. What if, gulp, when I get to the next level, I can't face a candy bar or cookie until, heaven forbid, noon?

Maybe, if I try really hard, I can come up with a way to avoid the next level before I get there.