About two weeks ago, Al and I had a conversation that went something like this:
"Holy crap! what does that number say?" Me, while standing on the scale
"Umm...167." Al
"Oh. Well, that's not good." Me
"Why's that?" Al
"well that's the largest number I've ever seen on a scale. And, well, look at this..." Me, as I look in the mirror, pinching various parts of my body.
Truth is, I haven't been happy with my body for a while. I realized the other day that I haven't legitimately been to a gym and worked out in over A YEAR. I have gone once or twice to boxing class or yoga or some other fitness class, but they were few and far between.
And while my weight is not that much higher than my previous weight, my body has significantly changed. I've lost definition in my glutes and thighs and even my legs (which have always been toned and slender.) My tummy is flabby and my arms are weak.
For me, it's not even an image thing as much as a capability thing - I can barely do 5 push-ups right now. FIVE. It's pitiful.
After watching me poke and prod and frown at myself in the mirror for 20 minutes, Al came over, wrapped his arms around my waist and said:
"I think you're sexy. I always will. But if you're not feeling good about yourself, I can help with that."
I looked at him and asked what he meant.
"I can train you. You know, in the gym. If you want."
I agreed. I knew it would be brutal. He trains soldiers, after all. And he happens to be a workout rock star himself. This week presented the perfect opportunity to start the training regimen because Al was off for a long weekend. On Friday, we donned our sweats and tennies and walked down to the little gym at our apartment complex. 30 minutes of cardio and a bottle and a half of water later, and Al was all ready with a circuit for us.
Let me tell you...
I have not worked that hard in my entire life. Al was right there the entire time to push me to finish each set of reps (which he did firmly, but lovingly - I would imagine in a much different tone than he uses for his guys.) He pushed me until absolute muscle failure; until I could not do one more sit-up, one more push-up, one more bicep curl. I was completely fatigued and wanted to throw up. And then, for a brief moment, I couldn't breathe.
As I laid down on the floor to pull breath into my lungs, I cried. I was embarrassed that my body had shut down on me. I was worried Al would think I was weak or sad. Those thoughts only made me cry more. As the tears mixed with the sweat and rolled down my face, I finally caught my breath.
Later, I told Al I was embarrassed that I broke down like that.
Once again, being the wonderfully supportive man he is, he said exactly what I needed:
"Are you kidding? You did a workout that half my guys can't do. And you pushed yourself beyond YOUR limit. That's amazing!"
"Perhaps, but I bet none of your guys cry afterwards."
"You'd be surprised" he replied with a smile as he kissed my forehead. He then pulled away and said, "Gross. You need a shower."