It's a love-hate thing

I should have known I was in trouble when Chris hit the test button on the defibrillator. Do you think he was just trying to mess with me?

The device has never actually been used in the clinic. The friendly computerized voice said, "Please apply paddles directly to the patient's bare chest as shown."

"Oh great", I thought, "He's going to see my naked chest if he has to use that thing on me in case things go terribly wrong in this work out." Later, I realized that seeing my naked chest would be significantly more traumatic for him than it would be for me.

So. The workout. There were things that made my hamstrings noodley and my mood foul. Chris told me he was aiming for signs of muscle failure. He got it.

There were pull ups and curls and a couple of things that involved squatting. You know I never bother to remember the names of any of this stuff. Mostly because I think he just makes them up as he goes along. More arms, more legs, stepping over things, squatting and ducking under things, lost of sets and reps and sweat. The sweat wasn't dripping. It was cascading.

I can't remember everything. All I can clearly remember is that I was cursing him out 15 minutes into the work out which lasted 90 minutes today. Added to the 30 minutes I did this morning before work, I think this might be the most I've ever worked out in one day, in my life.

I was asked repeatedly, "What's your heart rate?" and "Can you feel the burn?" Yes, Jane Fonda, I can feel the flippin' burn! I wonder if he'll feel it when I burn him in effigy in my front yard tonight.

I was told repeatedly, "Strong arms, Pamela! Come on! Come on!" and "Push! Four more, three more, strong finish!" I wonder what class he had to take in graduate school to learn all of that motivational trainer lingo.

Half way through the workout I was so wiped out, I couldn't argue or resist anymore. I just gave in and complied. Please note: For those reading this who know me well, there will be a collective jaw-dropping at that last statement. It takes a lot to shut me up.

I wanted to be done. When we hit the 60 minute mark I was so relieved.

Until he set up another small circuit and told me we weren't finished yet. At this point I was whining. Ok, I might have been crying a little. Another 25 mintues crawled by.

When we finished, I told him I was counting the work out as an hour and a half and he said, "Are you going to work out another 5 minutes? It's not an hour and a half. It's an hour and 25 minutes." Sometimes he makes me so mad I just want to throttle him.

I got on the elliptical and went another 5 minutes. Voluntarily. There was no way I was going through all of that to have him tell me I didn't work out for an hour and a half with him.

Right now my body is sore. My arms and shoulders are sore. My legs are sore. My butt is sore. My hair is sore!

Toward the end of the workout, when I could barely even talk anymore, I knew Chris felt he was working me hard because he started being...nice. He started speaking in this really calm, quiet tone, bordering on sympathetic. Truthfully, it kinda creeped me out a little. One thing I count on the trainers for is demanding more from me physically than I think I can give.

I complain a lot about how hard Chris pushes me but I really wouldn't have it any other way. He's been with me through a lot of ups and downs and one heck of a heart-breaking set back.

A friend said to me, "You've stuck with Chris a really long time. He must be good." The truth is, he has stuck with me.

I know I can get to the goal without him.

I just don't want to.