No Rest For the Lazy

Everyone I know who exercises always rhapsodizes about its benefits and how the endorphins kick in and make you feel sooo good.

Well, I've been working out for two and a half years now and I haven't seen one measly endorphin yet.  But you know what does feel good?  When I stop exercising.  Yeah.  Sitting around eating cookies feels great, and sitting around eating chocolate and watching Sleepless in Seattle for the one thousandth time feels absolutely amazing!   Exercise just makes me feel sore, tired and a little bit cranky.  Okay, a lot cranky.

But I do it.  Twice a week...unless I can get out of it.  Which, no matter how hard I try, I can't.  My trainer won't let me.  I keep firing her, but she somehow got the crazy idea that it is her job to get me in shape, and she is like a terrier with a bone.  She just won't give up.  I've resorted to bribery, but nothing seems to work, not even leaving the country.

"We're going away next Monday and Tuesday,"  I'll tell her, barely able to suppress my joy at thwarting her evil plans, "so I guess that means I'll only see you Thursday."

"No problem," she counters pulling out her schedule book, and cackling gleefully at  thwarting my plans.  "We'll just switch to Wednesday and Friday."  I hate her.

I've tried leaving town for four to five days in a row to avoid her torturous machinations, but to no avail.  "Oh, I'm gone Saturday through Wednesday next week, so I guess we'll do either Thursday or Friday."  Got you there, Miss Smarty Pants.  Everyone knows that you can't workout two days in a row.  Muscles need rest.

Everyone but my trainer.  The harpy simply raises a superior brow, pulls out her pen and the dreaded book that I plan to steal and burn one day and calmly destroys my hopes and dreams of being able to not need massive quantities of muscle relaxants, super-sized heating pads and gallons of Bengay.

"Don't worry, we can do legs one day and upper body the next."

Wow.  You'd do that for me?  No, no.  I can't let you be that kind.  Honestly, you deserve a day or two or fifteen off.  I'll be fine.  Really.

And yet she shows up, week after week, month after month, year after year.

Even vacation  is not an excuse to slack off.  She has brought Tim over to the dark side.  The two of them have teamed up to make sure I get no rest from lifting, pressing, hopping, jumping, pushing, puling, crunching, lunging and squatting.

On our cruise last year, he somehow got the insane notion (which I know my evil genius trainer not only approved of, but actively encouraged), that because I agreed to go to the gym with him, I actually was willing to do something besides drink the free water and admire my coordinated Lululemon outfit in the mirror.

"Okay, there's two ellipticals free, let's go," he steered me away from the tempting bowl of bananas.  "Forty-five minutes, then we'll lift some weights"

Wait.  What?  Forty-five minutes?   I am on vacation.  Say it with me...vacation.  In case you are unaware of the concept, but it is universally accepted to mean no work!   Forty-five minutes is definitely considered work.  Hard work.  In fact, I believe it is against the labor laws in at least thirty-six countries.

Besides, working out for even forty-five seconds is waaay more time than I was planning to spend sweating and gasping for breath the entire week.  And for your information, the only lifting I'm willing to do is one of those yummy frozen drinks at the pool from the table to my lips.

I turned to make my escape, but he somehow managed to head me off at the pass and convince me to at least see what all the fuss over ellipticals was about.

I have to admit that after the first five minutes, I was starting to feel really winded... and all I had done was wipe down the machine and flip through the TV channel options.

And while I'm on the subject, if you expect me to make it even ten minutes, you ar going to have to offer me better choices than CNN and ESPN.  I mean, come on.  Hadn't these people ever heard of Lifetime or TBS?

Somehow, I muddled my way through the next sixteen hours, I mean thirty minutes, before Tim was sufficiently happy and we headed for the weights (after I tried my second escape, of course).

"All right, sixty-five reps with each arm, then six thousand crunch-jump-lunges," he decreed.

Couldn't I just jump overboard and pull the ship instead?  And even though you sound like her, just so you know, YOU ARE NOT MY TRAINER.  I came here to get away from her.

After about three day of this, Tim finally recognized the futility of this endeavor (and got tired of the whining and having to physically carry me to the gym and strap me onto the machine) and gave up.  Off he went to the gym, alone, while I parked myself at the pool and read fairy tales about lands far, far away where no one had ever heard of weights, reps or personal trainers.  And we all lived happily ever after.

Until vacation ended.