Happy I Still Float

Dear That’s Life,
Funny thing about working out with a trainer is that while you are the one paying them, you are also the one in pain. Sometimes it feels as if it should be the other way around. After all, it is unclear who gets more out of these sessions: the trainer who basks in the glory of a sore client or the client who is promised the pot of gold at the end of the storm, but has to hobble to get there.

It’s not the day of the workout itself that is the worst. Rather, the day after or even two days after is when you really feel it. Simple everyday activities become chores; just walking seems much more difficult than you remember. Making dinner, typing or doing the laundry is far more challenging than before and while it still needs to be done, you rather it did not hurt so much. Putting one foot in fornt of the other, you wonder if maybe more stairs were added since the last time you were there. Since it is your own house, however, you figure they would have consulted you. Oh, how you long for yesterday.

I went to a gym once where they had a breakfast for new members. They served bagels, cream cheese and butter. That’s the punch line.

I have been working with Ian, my trainer, for about five years. He has the patience of a saint, meeting me before the crack of dawn, and often before I’ve had coffee. Having trained me through pregnancies, he has certainly seen me through many stages. Also a source of motivation, Ian pushes me beyond what I think are my limits. Complete with tips for dieting and muscle recovery, he takes as much pride in my progress as I do. He also listens as I bare my eating sins, as if admitting what I have done will melt the pounds away. Maybe the calories won’t even count if I tell Ian that mistakes were made. What’s done is done, he’ll say, right before he kicks my butt as part of my penance.

Even in his spare time, Ian works out for hours, serving as his own personal advertisement. We have discussed finding him a hobby, as I have tried to convince him that having no separation between work and play is bad news. Ian disagrees, believing he has the best of both worlds. He loves it to such an extent that even when he is not working, he keeps at it. It clearly paid off, as he dressed up as the Incredible Hulk for Halloween, without the need for a bought costume. And now, he also has bragging rights to go with it.

Having entered into a competition with a friend and fellow trainer, a bet was made as to who would have the least amount of body fat after a finite amount of training time. Measured by the team at Adelphi University, they would individually submerge into a water tank that accurately measures body fat. Each contestant would have several readings, the average of which determines the winner.

The closest I have ever come to discussing my personal percentage of body fat is to say that there is way too much of it. I cannot imagine being in a situation where I’d willingly let someone take that measurement, let alone compete against someone else. Late into my pregnancies, I refused to weigh in at my prenatal visits. At that point, as far as I was concerned, it was nobody’s business. I remember going to see “Chicago” when pregnant with my eldest, only days away from delivering. I looked at the fit and limber dancers, envied their figures and pathetically convinced myself they must never have been pregnant. Having already gained 56 lbs., I weighed more than my dad who is 6”2 and had been nicknamed “Orca”. Not only was I a whale, I was a killer whale.

Yet here was Ian and his fellow trainer, choosing their foods wisely and eating plenty of calories, while delicately balancing their workouts with cardio and muscle building. I don’t have four hours on any given day to exercise, even with a bet looming. That was part of the winning technique, however, and with a total score of 9.3% body fat, Ian won.

I was sitting at dinner with my husband and a friend when I read Ian’s post on Facebook. His startling score sent shock waves through the two men at my table, continuing to eat the deep fried sushi before us. They had the same reaction as every other man with whom I have shared this story. In some way or another, they have all wondered aloud if being 193% body fat is the same as being 9.3%. Um, not exactly.

Suffice it to say, Ian has a new goal which I am sure he will attain. In celebration, he enjoyed a night out of pulled pork with a side of mac and cheese at his favorite barbeque restaurant. He invited us to come along should there ever be a holiday granted to Orthodox Jews where kosher is suspended, milk and meat eaten together and pork allowed on the menu. I laughed and told him not to hold his breath or add seats at his table. While I appreciated the offer, the chances of that happening were, I guessed, as good as me ever weighing in at 9.3% body fat.

MLW

As Seen in the South Shore Standard Aug 2011