Ah, that's not entirely fair.
I hear the quadriceps SCREAMING.
I'm sore. Did I mention that I'm sore?
I had a brain cloud over the weekend and agreed to a (free) hour with a personal trainer at the gym.
My motives were pure. I had been pretty much a slug since my vacation in November, and, with the start of the new year, I figured I should get my sorry (and ever-expanding) ass back into the gym.
I was also bored. I had been doing some classes -- mat pilates, water aerobics, "low-and-sculpt" (whatever that means) -- and thought maybe I could progress to a big-girl workout on actual machines.
So when the trainers started contacting members and offering complimentary sessions, I bit.
I was clear when I met with the woman, though, that I really wasn't interested in more one-on-one sessions but that my primary goal was to figure out some of the machines and get some sort of routine going.
Two hours later -- yes, you read that correctly, two hours -- I hobbled out of the gym and went home. My head was full of nonsense that I knew I would never remember.
Nor did I care to.
I present to you the "workout" that I was given -- 10 minutes on the treadmill followed by repetitions on more muscle-specific machines than I thought actually existed.
Each machine required an adjustment. A seat. A foot pad. A cable height. Appropriate weights.
I'm a simple woman with a simple attention span. After six machines, I was a little confused.
After 10, I was looking at the trainer a little funny.
When we got to 14, I was distracted by something shiny and forgot everything she told me.
And yet she had "just one more" to show me.
Yes. Fifteen machines, all with multiple adjustments and a different number of reps and weight.
But never fear, Janet, she told me. "I wrote it all down for you."
I present to you ... exhibit A: my official exercise routine.
You really can't make this crap up.
And yeah, I'm going back to water aerobics.