Since I’ve been out of work and not very successful in finding a job, my mother, God bless her, has decided to make me her personal project to get me out of my emotional slump. She figured she needed to get my patooty out of my office chair and away from my computer, so she signed us both up for visits with a personal trainer. “Patooty,” by the way, is our personal trainer’s favorite word to use when reminding us to squeeze our buns at every available opportunity. It’s becoming a word I absolutely hate.
We go twice a week, and I think we both dread those days, although neither of us will actually admit it. When we both pull up to the trainer's house my mother is usually wearing a forced smile and I’m inwardly groaning at the thought of what that trainer is about to do to me for the next hour. I continually remind myself that this is good for me. If nothing else, it’s great bonding time with my mother even if it involves both of us assuming some of the most embarrassing positions a body can assume, and, as the hour progresses, we start looking more like two sweaty, disheveled wretches than two respectable ladies.
As far as embarrassing positions, there’s an exercise called the Cat-Cow that we do. If you’ve never seen, heard of, or attempted this position, I wouldn’t advice it for any self respecting lady to pull off. One must place themselves on a mat on all fours, and that’s about the extent to which I am willing to explain it. Personally, I think all cats and cattle out there should take offense to it being named that.
I have to admit, though, for a 62 year old lady, my mother can really kick some patooty in the gym, and I’m delighted to be participating in it with her, even if my attitude toward the trainer, although it’s completely undeserved, is less than respectable. I’m just having a difficult time feeling all warm and fuzzy about someone who has that much power over me. Somehow I’ve formed this mental picture of the trainer as the “enemy.” No one should be able to make you experience that much pain and get away with it. It should be on the law books as a bonafide crime. (People say that our true character comes out in times of adversity, so I’m afraid I’ve got a lot to work on.)
My suspicions of my mother’s dread for these appointments were confirmed a few weeks ago when we showed up for our appointment and the trainer was auspiciously absent. (Due to the tough economy, our trainer and her husband/business partner had to downsize and work out of their garage. Believe me when I say that the downsize has not in the least changed the effectiveness of their workouts.) We knocked on the door and tried the gate, but to no avail.
I wasn’t about to show my absolute glee over this truly miraculous turn of events, I was already formulating everything I wanted to do for the next hour in my mind, but to my utter shock my normally calm and collected mother quickly turned to me, wide-eyed and frantic, and said, “Hurry! No time for talking. Let’s get out of here before she shows up.”
I always thought my mother put in ample effort in the cardio portion of our workouts, but the speed with which she turned heal and made for her car was quite an amazing site to behold. If there had been dirt instead of pavement on the sidewalk, I would have been left in her dust. We both jumped into our cars, started them up, and sped off down the street like race car drivers.
Unfortunately, the street the personal trainer lives on is quite a long street, and by the time we got half way down it, we saw the trainer turn her car onto the street heading for her house. I half expected to see my mother duck down behind the steering wheel to avoid being seen, but to my complete dismay, she flipped her blinker on to make a u-turn and headed back. It was all so surreal. I half contemplated continuing on home, but I reluctantly followed my mother’s lead, and to be honest, I felt like crying.
Once we arrived, the trainer was shaking a disapproving finger at us with a big Cheshire cat grin on her face. She made us pay for our little adventure with blood, sweet, and tears. Okay, maybe not blood, but it sure felt like it, and I’m sure we have amply learned our lesson. Although, I’m not sure that if it were to happen again, I wouldn’t hit the gas a little more next time.
