Phil.
He doesn’t sound like an asshole drill sergeant who’s going to make me cry, or puke, or dislike myself more than I already do. And yet I can’t convince my legs to carry me through the front doors of The Fit Factory.
Two different moms recommended I come talk to him. But when you’re a big girl stepping into a new fitness place, and when you’ve been made to feel like shit about your size so many times over the years… It’s hard walking through the doors of a new gym to meet a new, fit person you secretly hope will somehow change your life without being a judgy prick.
Stepping into the building, I suck in a steadying breath. My hands shake, my stomach hurts, and I might puke—before I’ve even met the guy.
There’s a huge chalkboard facing the main entrance to the gym with brightly colored messages of gratitude andencouragement in numerous handwriting styles. Clearly the people who come to the gym are happy here, or at least they’re not miserable enough to write horrible messages on the chalkboard like “save me” and “Phil sucks.” Hopefully that means he doesn’t actually suck.
The walls are covered in photographs, smiling faces both inside and out of the gym. It sets a welcoming tone, and the terror clutched in a heavy knot in my stomach relaxes just a tad.
A sign over a doorframe says,“You don’t have to see the whole staircase to take the first step.”It’s a Martin Luther King, Jr. quote that makes me roll my eyes. Phil’s a funny fucker. I know this already because there’s a staircase through the doorway, and you can’t see all of it, just the first few steps.
It leads to his torture chamber. I’m going to be out of breath by the time I get to the top.
Ugh. What am I doing here?
Stepping through the doorway I’m met with a bright light in a small alcove. Giant yellow letters on the wall tell me this is the selfie spot, and I can see why.
If I were big into social media, this would be the perfect setting for a selfie. Maybe in the future.
A winding staircase lined with yet more smiling photos of people in various stages of fitness leads me up to a black door.
Once I open it, there’s no real turning back. If I try to flee, I’ll likely fall down the stairs and won’t ever be able to show my face again due to overwhelming embarrassment.
Hey, wait a sec, there might be something to that.
Every now and then, Wyatt needs a pep talk. When he’s trying new food, or going somewhere for the first time, using the potty, or even going back to daycare for the first time after a break.
Today, I need the pep talk, and my little cheerleader is at school.
It’s just me, pep talking me.
Not sure how this is going to go to be honest. I’m not good at pep talking myself at all. But at the end of the day Phil’s just a human being like I am. Sure, he might have perfectly chiseled abs, and can probably lift a fucking car off the ground—I honestly have no clue since I’ve never seen the man before—but he had to start somewhere, right? Doesn’t everyone?
He can’t have been born able to lift cars, fully equipped with bulging biceps. And surely the moms from school aren’t pranking me. He’s got to be decent enough for a couple of them to recommend him as being down to earth and not a dick.
Not a dick, that’s where the bar is. That’s what we’re aiming for, and poor buff-as-fuck Phil on the other side of this door has no idea.
Pulling open the door, I swallow down the fear tickling the back of my throat. I hate this. It feels like I’m walking into a new doctor’s office and having to start from the beginning, all over again.
Turns out, Phil’s not buff-as-fuck after all. He’s just a regular human being who is also muscular. He’s not like, the Hulk, or anything. He’s just a guy. A nice guy from how our introductory conversation goes. I told him my history with PCOS and that my OBGYN recommended I start lifting weights to help insulin resistance, and that building muscle will help with the balance of estrogen in my body.
Fuck knows if he believed a single word that came out of my mouth about why I’m a fat girl, but he nodded and listened, and most of the time that’s more than half the battle.
I might like him.
It’s too soon to tell, but we’ll see how things go.
For the last part of our thirty minute session, Phil makes me actually do things. I mean, I came dressed and ready towork out. Okay, I might be over stating the “ready” part, but I’m dressed for exercise at least.
We do squats and push-ups and planks and squats and kettle bell single arm rows and squats, and did I mention the squats? I’ve worked out a bit before, but it never took. Mostly because of the second and third day agony from waking up dormant muscles. I’m for sure not going to be able to sit on the toilet tomorrow. I’ll have to work on perfecting hovering above the toilet and then dropping onto place movement.
Sweat is pouring off me by the time the fifteen minutes of devil-squats are up. Not sure what Phil was looking for from that quick run through of a number of exercises, but the temptation to lie on the gym floor and tap out was strong.
Didn’t cry, didn’t puke. Those are both wins.
My muscles are already screaming, asking what the fuck I was thinking just using them after all this time being inactive. This body was not designed for fitness. Fit-this-whole-cookie-in-my-mouth more like.
