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.
Gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.
“I’m dying.” I want to starfish on the floor, but at this point I’m not sure I could get back up.
“You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do.”
“Uh…?” I can think of at least thirteen thousand better things to do than be right here at the gym with sweat trickling down my sternum and into my sports bra.
Phil raises an eyebrow at the confusion on my face. He’s got a look on his face that says, “Why did I take this woman on as a client?” I have no idea why.
“Ferris Bueller?” Phil’s eyes rise up his forehead, but I don’t know why.
Still nothing. I mean, I know of the movie. Pretty sure I watched it once, but from the way his eyes go wide it’s like I just kicked his puppy, or his favorite pair of Asics.
Shaking his head, he sighs with a laugh. “You're not dying, you just can't think of anything good to do is a quote from Ferris Bueller.”
He shakes his head again, clearly despairing at my lack of Ferris Bueller knowledge. I mean, I enjoy movies as much as the next person, but I’m not a diehard movie lover. Perhaps Phil will give me a couple of good recommendations to watch with Mom.
Could talking about his love of movies save me from this torture chamber?
By the time I leave, my limbs are shaking. I’ve finished two bottles of water, need to pee, and my shirt is sticking to my back.
It’s my first session, and while the OBGYN said to trust her, right now, I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a gym rat. The idea of doing that all over again, even just one more time, never mind for months on end… Ugh.
Can’t pizza just make me skinny?
No. This time’s different.
This time isn’t about being skinnier or prettier. It’s not about fitting into pre-pregnancy clothes I’ve held onto for years in the hopes I’ll finally get back into them. It’s not about what I’msupposedto look like by the unrealistic standards of social media influencers.
It’s about getting my PCOS under control, not bleeding through my fucking clothes and sheets every month when I get my period, living a longer and healthier life for both my son and myself.
This time is different. It has to be.
And if doing all the right things means I end up losing weight, and fitting into old clothes, those are bonuses I’ll happily take, but it’s not the goal. And I need to keep reminding myself of that.
Dragging myself through the front door of the house ishard. My legs feel like I crammed my feet into the holes of those stupid kettlebells, and they’re weighing me down as I move.
Why the fuck do people do this to themselves?
