Ugh

OR:The Not Yet, But Soon To Be, New and Improved Farrago Follow-Up


Well, George didn't kill me, after all. But he did make me very aware of what a huge wimp I am. He's a big believer in the "pure" physical arts, those that require no machinery to work the body. So I was doing squats and lunges and something he called a "body row," which sorta did use a piece of machinery, but it was just a rack-suspended weight bar I swung my legs under, with my feet on the floor and the rest of my body hanging by my arms and facing up at the bar. Then, using my arms and my shoulder muscles (what shoulder muscles?!), I had to raise my chest to the bar. It was pretty easy… the first three reps. Suddenly my upper arms and my shoulders started protesting, and suddenly I was no longer happy that I spent so much goddamn money on this lark.

To give me a little break, George switched me to an inclined pushup. He apparently could tell that I would never make it through a regular pushup, so he put me on the same bar, only a little lower, and I drew my feet back and did pushups on the bar. That proved to be only slightly easier than the body row.

After all that embarrassment, George gave me what looked sorta like a black basketball with handles carved into it. He demonstrated this exercise where he spread his feet shoulder width apart and held the "ball" down by his ankles with both hands. Then he raised the "ball" up over his head, extending his torso as tall as he could, and raising up on his toes.

It was the gayest looking thing I've ever seen in a gym.

Then he handed the "ball" to me to do it, because I'm not paying him to let me watch him do my exercises…and DAMN if I couldn't do that one, either, without wobbling and teetering and thinking I must have looked like I just came straight to the gym from an all night bar!

And today? I. am. sore. everywhere. But, especially sore are the man-boobs. Holy Cheeses Chrysler! I've been sore there before, but that wasn't after 20 solid years of lying motionless on a couch! And I'm sore on the inside of my thighs under my butt, right behind the jewels.

I'VE NEVER BEEN SORE THERE IN MY LIFE!

Sorry for the TMI.

And when I push with my arms to get out of a chair, I feel my triceps muscles — all five or eight or twelve of them…whatever — and they're a little pissed at me right now.

Today is Thursday, as I write. Wednesday morning was my first workout with George; my next one is Saturday. Yesterday, as I was wheezing after my breath following the second set of body rows, and anticipating the sore muscles, I said to George, "I'm gonna hate you tomorrow."

He said, "That's okay. I'm used to it. You're gonna hate me even more on Friday."

Oh, god.



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