I don't do particularly well with people yelling at me and ordering me around, especially if I think I know what I'm doing. Which is why I sought out a trainer who specializes in boxing--something I know pretty much nada about. This way, when he says "Stand like this, put your arms here, kick with this foot this way," I'm not thinking, "Shut up, you roided bastard."
Although, as it turns out, I could never think that about Sam, my poor poor trainer. Sam has the patience of a cloistered nun. Last Thursday, I was all sorts of pathetic, hitting the punching bag so soft it could be construed as a love tap. Sam said, with all his trainer-therapist wisdom, "The days we DO NOT want to work out but do it anyway are the days we're getting the most out of it--a real test for our bodies and our minds." If I was able to catch my breath, I would've told him I love him.
So, I'm looking forward to today's session. Sorta. Except, last week, just when I thought I had the system all figured out, Sam said, "Today, we do stairs." (And by "we" he meant me, while he watched with dismay at the bottom.)
My nemesis, the stairs
I will attempt to, once again, not feel bovine-ish as I struggle to climb the stairs while doing bizarre combinations of leg lifts and squats with a medicine ball. I will attempt to not cry. I will attempt to not complain. I will attempt to make Sam think I'm progressing. These are my goals.
On a side note, I said to my fiance the other night, "Honey, Sam thinks I should buy my own gloves..." He stared at me for a moment and then said, "I'm not sure boxing gloves in the house are a good idea."
Why ever heaven's not???
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