As you may be aware, I have a personal trainer coming to the building three times a week. I'll call him Adam -- I could call him other very nasty names, but I'm past all that -- because that's his name. Adam is a LeBron James fan, which is ... well, if you look over at the left side of this blog -- that's a LeBron James bobblehead. Well, Adam found out early on that LeBron wasn't going to be invited to any parties at our place.
So, this has been a complicating factor in my work-outs to the extreme, in my opinion. I did not cause it; but I am, let's say, the victim of irony.
Now, having never been in any kind of a work-out program, let alone a program designed and supervised by a personal trainer, I thought work-outs would consist of lifting a couple free weights, doing that lifting thing on the hamstring machine, maybe a couple push-ups and sit-ups -- just tone up in general so I don't keel over from a heart attack and maybe be able to hit a golf ball farther .
I did not realize that Adam -- and I think this LeBron conflict, with which I have nothing to do, started my new venture down this path -- is a mad scientist among personal trainers. He is dabbling in human experimentation, and his lab specimen is me. His attitude has changed; Monday morning at 7 a.m., he stood there, planning the torture he wanted to inflict. An evil little grin creased his face as he fingered the 25 pound dumbbells, hands floating to and caressing the 30, 35, the 40 pounders. If he had a handlebar mustache, he would have been twirling the ends between his thumbs and forefingers, contemplating his next evil move.
I can't remember much of what happened in the next hour. It's like that. In order to survive this brutal human experimentation by this mad man, I seclude my conscious self, to the extent that I can do so, in a private corner behind one of the filing cabinets in my brain. I remember, at some point, a rather hideous form, casting the file cabinet aside, discovering me and rousting me into conscious awareness, Adam, evil bile running from the corner of his mouth, almost orgasmic, exclaiming, "Good, good, good! None of the twenty-somethings I train can do this at 7 in the morning!" Then there was an evil laugh, and his pupils were bright red, as if ruby laser light would shoot from them any second.
It is a blank after that. I regained consciousness, laying on an exercise mat, face down. "Nobody does a hundred push-ups this time of morning. Excellent, excellent workout," he said. "I can't wait until Friday!"
He will not break me, though.
Adam's concerned about the weather, wants it to stop raining, wants it to warm up. He has plans to use the sidewalk next to the building on the street where many cars burn out clutches and squeal tires climbing the hill from the river into the Warehouse District -- to inflict even more torture, attempting to determine the limits of human endurance.
He has tangled with the wrong person. The incessant rain. The 40 degree temperature. Sometimes, the human mind can tap into powers that are not possible to comprehend. No workout today ... no rain, sunny and mild. Adam will be here tomorrow morning. It will rain.
Posted by Bill at April 21, 2011 08:28 AM