Woman Falls Shortt of Weight Loss Goal. Does Not Care

Well, I thought -wished, hoped- that by now I would be about thirty  pounds lighter. The truth is, that was an unrealistic goal, and I knew it at the time I set it, but hey, why not go flat out. One hundred pounds lost in 9 months? Only if I were giving birth to a moose.  In 12 months - that takes me up to some time in December - yeah, probably.  The good news is that I am building muscle every day, gaining energy and strength and regaining balance and co-ordination, and at this point, those things are more valuable than more lost pounds.  So, yeah, I feel OK with it. Good, even.

Now that Autumn is coming to Atlanta, albeit in fits and starts, walks in the woods and along creeks with the dogs have become even more beautiful and sometimes last two hours at a stretch. And, I have to admit the down side, the humiliation factor has increased at the gym.

To his everlasting credit, my trainer does not cringe or laugh, and he has plenty of reason, believe me.
Today was a prime example. A core exercise that I think is also supposed to be good for the legs (if not one's dignity) is to lie flat on a narrow, padded bench so that your legs are over one end, knees bent and feet flat on the floor. Now I have a fear of falling off almost anything, and since the bench is narrower than my rump, I have good cause to feel I will pitch over the side at any moment.

My trainer, due to his education and an ample amount of kindness toward ladies as old as his grandmother, keeps reassuring me not to worry.

"You can't fall,"he says. Yeah, right. "I'll catch you before you fall," he says.

Yeah? You and who else? I want to ask. After all, he definitely weighs less than I do and although he has muscles, they are the muscles of youth, muscles that have never really had to catch a flailing panicky woman, plunging all of 16" or so to the floor. I need a forklift, for God's sake. Maybe a fireman, trained in the shoulder carry while climbing backwards down a ladder. Out of a 6th story window. If I fell on this young man, I would squash him like a bug. Of this, I am certain.

But the worst is yet to come.  We start the exercise, which means that I have to elevate my legs at ninety degrees to my body, knees straight, feet together, and then lower them slowly until my feet are once again on the floor. Just my feet. Not the rest of me.

The first couple of times I barely get my legs horizontal. On the third time I hoist them up a bit more, obviously encouraging him to think I might eventually do this. I am sweating like a longshoreman. On next try, I heave my body into it and get my legs up to about a fort-five degree angle, whereupon I feel someone (guess who) firmly grasp my calves and help me hoist my dry, flaky, and yes, somewhat hairy legs a bit further.

Do I go to the gym with unshaven legs? Shocking thought. Of course I do. So does every woman in American over the age of twenty-seven.  Not simian hairy, but stubble-ish, and hairier than the stubble on his chin, that's for sure.

So, I survived this ordeal and we  know each other a bit better than perhaps we want to.  Let's just say my legs will be as smooth as a baby's bottom before my next workout. And he is trying to build his client list, so if you want a cute, young guy grab your calves, just let me know and I'll pass along his number.