NEVER, EVER yell at your trainer. Ever.
This is about to get real folks. Real graphic. The squeamish should just go ahead and turn away. Quit reading. You've been warned.
Let's start at the beginning...
Wednesday morning I woke with excruciating menstrual cramps. If you can envision having a gut shot wound and intestines spilling out of your body, you might have some idea what was a happenin' to me this past Wednesday. But probably not. So let's move on.
I shot half of a bottle (slight exaggeration) of ibuprofen with my coffee, tequila and protein powder (breakfast of champions) and then hobbled to my 7:30 am appointment with Keith, otherwise known as Satan. Keith used to train professional baseball players so his idea of positive encouragement looks like, "You did a good job today... But I suspect you can do better."
And JS doesn't pay him to be nice to me. So it's almost okay. I'm trying to coach him on his positivity and he's trying to train me to keep my mouth shut. Ha.
Anywho, this Wednesday I started my session by telling Keith that I was 80% certain I would be puking from the pain that was my uterus, and he began our session by throwing up a little bit himself. Then he made me do 8,000 single leg RDL's, band walks and split squats. Things were getting a little tense after the 4th round because I had set a new record for underachievement due to blood loss. Keith's patience was wearing thin and the number of his antagonizing comments was growing large.
I was mostly just dizzy and nauseous in between the black-outs. And getting more irritable by the minute.
After attempting a few Russian leg curls, alternately known as the most painful exercise ever, (Slide your legs under a weight bench, raise your ankles in the air thereby smashing the delicate bits of your calves into the bottom of the weight bench, and then use your legs to hold your body as you lower and raise your chest from the ground) Keith thew it out of the plan due to my increasing belligerence.
Russian leg curls
Since we threw out the leg curls we added in back extensions with weight.
When Keith made the mistake of asking which weight I wanted, things got a little ugly.
I regrettably replied, "I want the 5 pound plate." To which Keith made the, 'You must have lost your mind' face and said, "5 POUNDS!? We don't use the 5 pound plate!"
And then I totally lost my shit.
"WHY THE F WORD WOULD YOU EVEN ASK ME IF YOU WERE JUST GOING TO BE AN ASS? WHY DON'T YOU JUST BRING ME THE EFFING WEIGHT YOU THINK I SHOULD BE USING?"
Blame it on the pressure the machinery was putting on my ailing uterus or blame it on the increasing antagonism, but needless to say, it wasn't one of my finer moments. The two other gym patrons watched to see what would happen next. For a few shocked seconds, nobody made a peep. Keith's face remained surprised and a wee bit confused as my insides turned to shameful and embarrassed jello. When a smile started to spread across his face, I knew I was in for a world of hurt...
He had two whole days to work on his retribution. We met this morning for a workout that we shall now lovingly refer to as, "Payback is a Mother Effer." It only took 4 hours post workout for my arms to seize so that brushing my hair has become an absolute no-go. Changing clothes has also become completely impossible, but that's okay because I totally look forward to wearing this shirt for the next 4 days.
In other news, I've also recently learned you should NEVER, EVER, EVER tell your trainer that you ate the whole pizza... Or drank the entire bottle of booze by yourself... But you already knew that didn't you?
