The time I got a personal trainer

Here’s the thing about the gym: It’s awful.

Right? Like the gym is actually a horrible place. You force yourself to go, you sweat (which luckily covers up the tears),  you see other people who are already thin, which of these things sound good? None, I know.

So I recently joined a gym in New York – exclusively out of peer pressure from the the tiny, kale-eating humans I work with – and when you join the gym, you get a free 30-minute session with one of the gym’s personal trainers. I’d been to the gym once so far, where I did a little cardio and some crunches, really just trying to get a feel for the guys atmosphere there. Well today I did my 30-minute session with a personal trainer, or as I like to call it, my 30-minute session with a personal devil.

When you join the gym, they email you saying:
“Congrats, we are so happy to have you!” (A similar response you would get from a cell phone company or student loan website, also trying to ruin your life.) “Let us know when you’re available to do your free session with a trainer and of any goals you have.”

So then I went with being as straightforward in my response as possible, so they knew just what to expect:
“I was planning to stop by after work tonight, if that works. Goals include:

• Weight loss: Tummy-focused
• Thighs

Thank you!”

As the beautiful, broken-english, goddess-bodied European woman who was assigned to my case didn’t understand my bullet points, I tried to explain. I don’t need to have washboard abs or that whole “thigh gap” thing, I just don’t want to look like a grapefruit on toothpicks walking down 8th Avenue anymore. (We were now on the same page.)

The session started out great! A casual 4-minute walk on the treadmill to warm up – something I can completely handle. She then started to ask me questions:

• How much do you weigh? OUT LOUD, SHE SAID THIS. AS IF THE GUY ON THE TREADMILL NEXT TO HER WASN’T CUTE. SERIOUSLY?
• What do you usually eat? To which I politely replied, “I don’t really want to get into that. I think we both know what I should be eating and we both know I’m not. What else ya got?”
• What is your usual workout like? Apparently walking both to AND from the office is not considered a “daily exercise routine” but whatever.

You get the idea. After the simple stroll and in-depth questions, she took me to the part of the gym where you can do crunches, push ups, etc. on an open mat. This also turns out to be the place where I would die. Coincidence? I think not.

Now the thing about personal trainers that really gets to me, is that they think YOU TOO are a personal trainer. They tell you to jump up and down on a box while holding a medicine ball, staring at you concerned shocked that you can’t breathe. They count your plank + leg lifts, pretending as though you two do this all the time. They count to 12 while you sit against the wall hoping your ankles don’t crumble under your, trying to hold normal conversation. (All this after you literally just told them you moved from the midwest: land of all things carbs and cheese. I mean really, the nerve.)

Here is a little newsflash, by the way: I am not a personal trainer. Would I go to the gym and expect this woman to write me a press release? No, no I would not. Because I am a reasonable human being. But hey, that’s just me.

So once she is done torturing me in, and I run to the bathroom thinking I might actually barf right there in front of every good looking person in Chelsea, she suggests I sign up for a package of her training sessions. Yes, this woman thought I was going to subject myself to her torture, again, and pay her for it.

*I’m going to pretend when she put an emphasis on the words “really need to sign up” she meant because it was a great deal and not because it looked like I was going into cardiac arrest.

After nearly laughing (and considering slapping) in her face, I politely said no with an excuse that sounded more like confidence than defeat, but more like crying than laughing.

So as I slowly trudged home – at an albeit glacial pace – I asked  myself: In a city like New York, why would anyone ever pay someone $90 to torture them for a 30-minute session? There have got to be some people here who just make your cry for free, right?

And that is the story of how (and why) I started and quit my personal trainer in under an hour.