But sometimes I stopped to take pictures of pretty buildings along the way:
Showing posts with label trainer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trainer. Show all posts
Thursday, October 03, 2019
Throwback Thursday: Wachoo
Blerg. I used to get up at 5:00 every weekday to take the train to the Loop and get physically abused by my cruel, brutal trainer at my appallingly expensive gym for an hour before hobbling off to work.
But sometimes I stopped to take pictures of pretty buildings along the way:
Willis Tower peeking between the Federal Reserve Bank Building and the City National Bank and Trust Building. 5:30 am.
But sometimes I stopped to take pictures of pretty buildings along the way:
Wednesday, May 08, 2019
FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS
But.
Despite all my extremely conscientious, extremely disciplined, extremely successful planning and packing over the course of four-plus years, there was one sweaty morning I unpacked my bag at the gym and discovered to my horror that I hadn’t packed any work clothes. Not. A. Stitch. And it was 7:30 am on a weekday in the Loop, which meant there were absolutely no places open to buy clothes anywhere for the next few hours.
But.
My mega-trendy gym DID have a mega-trendy (read: exponentially most expensive) little (read: tiny, shitty selection of merchandise) boutique in its lobby, which also wasn’t going to be open for the next few hours. But the woman at the nearby check-in desk heard my tale of woe and took pity on me and found a key to open up the mega-trendy (read: exponentially most expensive) boutique so I could find something reasonably priced (read: HAHAHA!) that I could buy and wear to work.
The bad news: There was nothing in the entire boutique that said “white-collar desk job.”
The good news: My white-collar desk job had a pretty flexible, non-collar-of-any-color-obligating dress code when we weren’t meeting with clients.
The bad news: There was nothing in the entire boutique that said “less than a mortgage payment.”
The good news: My gym shorts weren’t TOO sweaty and I did have emergency backup clean underwear and I figured could probably get away with spending one day at work dressed like I’d just run a marathon.
Long story short: This T-shirt cost me FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS. And while it got me through a mega-casual workday, it actually fits like a cheap-ass five-dollar shirt to this day and I should just get rid of it but IT COST ME FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS.
So I feel like I still have to keep it in my shirt rotation. Because FORTY WHOPPING FIVE DOLLARS.
Monday, November 06, 2017
When you oversleep
... and you’re so late to the gym that you have to cancel your trainer at the last minute, your obvious first order of priority is to repost a proud Facebook memory from the middle of the Disney half marathon you ran a year ago.
Thursday, November 02, 2017
Second day. More advanced.
So Mystery Secret Gym Boyfriend was at the gym again today with his Beguiling Masculine CalvesTM. I was with my trainer so it would have been weird to just walk away from my workout and abruptly introduce myself by saying something mortifying like “My name’s Jake. Are those your calves? I like bread.” Just like yesterday, he kept totally to himself during his workout, but my trainer had me doing legs and while I was on the quad extension machine he yelled from across the gym to ask if I was using the squat rack, which tells me three things: 1) He noticed I was doing legs. 2) He’s considerate and polite. 3) We should have a June wedding.
But there are three more things that have left me in a ponder: 1) I hadn’t been anywhere near the squat rack, which is so far from where I was doing quads that you need a passport and a Silkwood scrubdown to get to it. 2) There are two squat racks right next to each other and neither had weights loaded so his question had only one transparent purpose and that purpose was to ask me how many cats we should get when we move in together. 3) Maybe the wedding should be earlier than June. Like this Saturday.
Anyway, he was doing planks as I left the gym, and don’t nobody wanna have a conversation with a stranger while counting seconds during planks. So I’ll just have to wear a different marathon shirt to the gym tomorrow to impress him with my Total Jock JocknessTM. Which I totally didn’t spend time picking out this morning for that very purpose. That would just be bread.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Mon. Ster.
I accidentally dressed all in green today, including my shaker bottle. My trainer accidentally dressed all in blue. If that's not reason enough for a gym selfie, I don't want to live in this cruel, judgmental world.
Also: She made me do squats. On leg day. Who DOES that? She's a monster.
Monday, August 07, 2017
Here's why I was late to meet my trainer this morning
ADDENDUM: It has come to my attention that the waterfowl (roadfowl?) pictured above are geese and not ducks, as previously reported. But I'm a very busy man with very important things filling my very important life so I simply do not have time to concept, focus-group and roll out new goose puns in an attempt to update the copy. I apologize if this decision ruffles any feathers.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
I'm letting my hair and possibly my beard grow out for Billy Elliot
In the past, people have told me I look like Wolverine when I've gotten all scruffy and fluffy like this. Despite the fact that I've never seen a Wolverine movie, I take this as high praise. In fact, my ex agreed to be boyfriends as long as I honored his get-out-of-this-relationship-for-free clause in the event Hugh Jackman showed up at our door in a towel. I'm embarrassed to say that I chose Nick Lachey -- WHO WAS SEXY AND RELEVANT AT THE TIME -- for my escape clause. But it didn't matter in the end; it was Patti LuPone who broke us up.
Anyway! My trainer just put me through a brutal back workout and I'm all but oozing sweat through my paint-spattered shirt from my college newspaper so I took a selfie in front of my gym's breaker box because that totally completed the uncanny Wolverine resemblance I'd achieved. But as I said, I've never seen a Wolverine movie so for all I know he didn't work at his college paper, didn't sloppily paint his sister's house or didn't go to a gym painted the color of microwaved mangoes. Nevertheless, you still have my full permission to tell me I look like Wolverine.
Anyway! My trainer just put me through a brutal back workout and I'm all but oozing sweat through my paint-spattered shirt from my college newspaper so I took a selfie in front of my gym's breaker box because that totally completed the uncanny Wolverine resemblance I'd achieved. But as I said, I've never seen a Wolverine movie so for all I know he didn't work at his college paper, didn't sloppily paint his sister's house or didn't go to a gym painted the color of microwaved mangoes. Nevertheless, you still have my full permission to tell me I look like Wolverine.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Well, shit.
I just remembered that I was named the Anytime Fitness January Member of the Month but I never filled out my profile or submitted a pic for the lobby display. In my defense, I totally forgot. I mean my trainer never followed up with a reminder. But she's awesome in the sense that she regularly kicks my ass and she lets me call her the bitchmaster so I'll let it slide. This time.
Anyway, I guess we'll have to let this selfie (me? a gym selfie?) in front of the current member of the month display suffice, with my Batman shake mixer strategically placed to protect the innocent from my shut-up-and-get-back-to-your-workout blathering.
Chest and shoulders day!
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Shit shirt
What kind of tacky, poor-judgment writer would buy such a vulgar, blasphemous shirt as this? THIS GUY.
What kind of disrespectful body-dysmorphia addict would violate the sanctity of the gym by wearing it to work out? ALSO THIS GUY.
What kind of bleary, non-morning, tacky, poor-judgment, vulgar, blasphemous, disrespectful potential juror who is quickly post-workout showering before he heads back to the courthouse would forget to pack a towel? HEY LOOK AT THE FUNNY SHIRT I'M WEARING!
What kind of disrespectful body-dysmorphia addict would violate the sanctity of the gym by wearing it to work out? ALSO THIS GUY.
What kind of bleary, non-morning, tacky, poor-judgment, vulgar, blasphemous, disrespectful potential juror who is quickly post-workout showering before he heads back to the courthouse would forget to pack a towel? HEY LOOK AT THE FUNNY SHIRT I'M WEARING!
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Letter from Chiberia
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So it’s cold here. Purportedly colder than the South Pole.
Or Mars. And while I agree that it’s been hella-freaking cold, I don’t think
it’s been all that horrible … but then again I’ve spent most of the cold snap
under a blanket on my couch.
The cold shut down my office on Monday, but I ventured out
to meet my trainer in the Loop anyway. And since I went at an off-peak time,
the CTA trains were not working in my favor. My first train took 15 minutes to
show up. My second train took 10. And then we sat at the Belmont station for
another 10 minutes with the freaking
doors open.
But that wasn’t the worst part. Sometimes, for reasons known
only to the travel gods, a train will suddenly “express” to some far-off
location and bypass all the stops in between. Passengers are usually notified
of this change at the last possible moment so we have very little time to
figure out alternate ways to get to our destinations. And on the coldest day in
the history of witches’ tits yesterday, my train announced it was going to
express when it was one stop away
from my destination. So I got to walk what I estimate to be half a mile to the
gym. But I looked at it as my pre-workout cardio, even though it was in
relatively brutal cold.
I had a great workout with my trainer, who is an
enthusiastic young man dedicated to kicking my 45-year-old ass into fighting
shape by summer. I actually think quite highly of him; in the few months I’ve
been working out with him, he’s found ways to work around – and strengthen the
muscles around – two chronic gym injuries that have held me back in my workouts
for years. Plus he’s good visual motivation, if you know what I mean. And by
that I mean he’s pretty hot.
I ended up on the drunk train on the ride home; there were
two loud, slurry guys holding an endlessly inane conversation across the aisle
from each other, breathing a great effluvium of liquor into the air and
cracking themselves up by shouting Happy
New Year! every time the conductor made an announcement. Thankfully, one of
them got off the train one stop from my stop, giving me a half mile of relative
quiet before I had to go out trudging in the cold again.
But before we left the station, it happened. The
announcement came that my train was expressing to some far-off location
beginning now, so I had to get off
the train and trudge an extra half mile back to my place. For those of you
keeping score at home, that makes two
trips in a row where the CTA expressed one stop before mine and forced me
out into the cold for a long freezing walk. There was no end to my suffering.
Bonus story!
My sister came to visit for the weekend and somehow made it
back home safely in the snow and cold on Sunday. But while she was here, she
cooked tons of food for me and divided it into single servings and stocked my
fridge and freezer with enough meals to last me through winter. For the record,
I know how to cook. And when I do, I’m not half bad at it. But I’m
fundamentally more lazy than hungry and left to my own devices I’ll eat peanut butter
and jelly for every meal for the rest of my life. So my sister’s cooking and
portioning and freezing of food was a welcome gift. Besides, I have only eight
knives so I can make only eight peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before I
have to start washing things and washing knives can sometimes be overwhelming.
But that’s not the bonus story! On Saturday we wandered out
in the snow and toured Millennium Park and the Art Institute and had a lovely
touristy time. Spirits were so high, in fact, that not one but two homeless guys complimented us on
what a cute couple we made. One even told us he could tell we’d been together
for a long time. Which, having been siblings for 43 years, is technically true.
But we hardly qualify as a couple. At least not north of the Mason-Dixon line.
But since two guys had commented on our cute coupledom, we figured maybe the
world knew something we didn’t. So we got MARRIED!* And this picture of us in
Chicago’s famous bean sculpture (called Cloud
Gate by purists) is our joyous wedding photo:
I’d normally register for extra peanut butter knives, but
since I now have a wifey who can cook, I’ll be registering instead for pots and
pans for her. And Chipotle gift cards for date nights. I can be selfless like
that.
* Not really.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Lists of things
Things I found while packing for an office move
1. A box of teabags that expired before I started working here five years ago.
2. Enough dust to knit a cowl-knit sweater.
3. My diploma from corporate-non-sexual-harassment training class. Which obviously didn’t take because I totally think you have a great rack.
Things I have done so far this summer
1. Spent a long weekend with six buddies on a private estate in upstate New York.
2. Started taking tap classes with a woman I picked up on an airplane.
3. Danced mostly naked on a Big Boy float (complete with insanely hot muscleboys in matching trunks, a corporate sponsorship, a decorating theme and an on-board deejay) in the Chicago pride parade.
Things that are apparently unavoidable
1. My trainer will tell me “watch your head” when I lean back on the decline bench press.
2. I will get more tattoos. And I’ll stop telling myself I can only get one for each marathon I finish.
3. The sink on the right in our office bathroom will always be out of hand soap.
Things that are hard to process
1. My little sister is now 40.
2. Michele Bachmann has a following.
3. People are finding value in Google+.
Things I have recently given up
1. Running marathons. All running, actually.
2. Writing blog posts, apparently. Except about once every few months.
3. All soda. But I fell off the wagon (or got back on, however the expression goes) within a month.
Things I put in my mouth every morning
1. Three medications for my growing litany of old-man maladies.
2. Three eggs scrambled with cheese and wheat toast with no-cholesterol butter and jelly.
3. My Jack3d pre-workout energy shake.
Things about me that are just not true
1. I was the first black Miss America.
2. I killed a man with my bare hands because he kept pronouncing it “fustrated.”
3. I am responsible for the destruction of marriage in the United States.
1. A box of teabags that expired before I started working here five years ago.
2. Enough dust to knit a cowl-knit sweater.
3. My diploma from corporate-non-sexual-harassment training class. Which obviously didn’t take because I totally think you have a great rack.
Things I have done so far this summer
1. Spent a long weekend with six buddies on a private estate in upstate New York.
2. Started taking tap classes with a woman I picked up on an airplane.
3. Danced mostly naked on a Big Boy float (complete with insanely hot muscleboys in matching trunks, a corporate sponsorship, a decorating theme and an on-board deejay) in the Chicago pride parade.
Things that are apparently unavoidable
1. My trainer will tell me “watch your head” when I lean back on the decline bench press.
2. I will get more tattoos. And I’ll stop telling myself I can only get one for each marathon I finish.
3. The sink on the right in our office bathroom will always be out of hand soap.
Things that are hard to process
1. My little sister is now 40.
2. Michele Bachmann has a following.
3. People are finding value in Google+.
Things I have recently given up
1. Running marathons. All running, actually.
2. Writing blog posts, apparently. Except about once every few months.
3. All soda. But I fell off the wagon (or got back on, however the expression goes) within a month.
Things I put in my mouth every morning
1. Three medications for my growing litany of old-man maladies.
2. Three eggs scrambled with cheese and wheat toast with no-cholesterol butter and jelly.
3. My Jack3d pre-workout energy shake.
Things about me that are just not true
1. I was the first black Miss America.
2. I killed a man with my bare hands because he kept pronouncing it “fustrated.”
3. I am responsible for the destruction of marriage in the United States.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Awesome news!
ONE
I installed new windshield wipers blades on my car yesterday! You don’t realize just how shameful and empty your life is when you drive around with wiper blades that leave wide, semi-opaque streaks right where you want to see. Probably because your blades fail slowly, so the growth of that shameful emptiness is like a gradually building storm cloud over your cold, dead soul. But the moment you install new blades that wipe your windshield bright and clean, you find yourself following semi trailer trucks on the highway so they’ll spray you with their backwash just so you can wipe it clean with one flick of your fancy new blades …all the while finding reasons to sing “I can see clearly now the rain is gone” to everyone who will listen.
TWO
I bench pressed 90-pound dumbbells this morning! Eight reps! Three sets! More loud grunts than I care to admit making! Before I started with my trainer, I struggled to get ten full reps with 60-pound dumbbells. Now I’m routinely pressing an entire grunge band (because it’s the ’90s! get it?) over my face without much worry about crushing my head or dislocating my shoulder. Though I doubt I’ll ever be able to tone down the grunting. So I hope the grunge band plays extra-loud.
THREE
I’M GOING TO NEW YORK, BABY! After three years of always-the-bridesmaid rejection, I’m finally gonna be rocking the New York City Marathon this November!
Since it’s a month later than the Chicago Marathon, I don’t have to start training until June. So I can have a leisurely spring … and I can finally enjoy the Chicago Marathon this year without actually running the damn thing. Of course, the 2010 Chicago Marathon will probably happen in perfect weather now that I won’t be there tempting the weather gods to make it stifling hot or tundra cold. But who cares! NYC! Marathon! Me! Finally!
I installed new windshield wipers blades on my car yesterday! You don’t realize just how shameful and empty your life is when you drive around with wiper blades that leave wide, semi-opaque streaks right where you want to see. Probably because your blades fail slowly, so the growth of that shameful emptiness is like a gradually building storm cloud over your cold, dead soul. But the moment you install new blades that wipe your windshield bright and clean, you find yourself following semi trailer trucks on the highway so they’ll spray you with their backwash just so you can wipe it clean with one flick of your fancy new blades …all the while finding reasons to sing “I can see clearly now the rain is gone” to everyone who will listen.
TWO
I bench pressed 90-pound dumbbells this morning! Eight reps! Three sets! More loud grunts than I care to admit making! Before I started with my trainer, I struggled to get ten full reps with 60-pound dumbbells. Now I’m routinely pressing an entire grunge band (because it’s the ’90s! get it?) over my face without much worry about crushing my head or dislocating my shoulder. Though I doubt I’ll ever be able to tone down the grunting. So I hope the grunge band plays extra-loud.
THREE
I’M GOING TO NEW YORK, BABY! After three years of always-the-bridesmaid rejection, I’m finally gonna be rocking the New York City Marathon this November!
Since it’s a month later than the Chicago Marathon, I don’t have to start training until June. So I can have a leisurely spring … and I can finally enjoy the Chicago Marathon this year without actually running the damn thing. Of course, the 2010 Chicago Marathon will probably happen in perfect weather now that I won’t be there tempting the weather gods to make it stifling hot or tundra cold. But who cares! NYC! Marathon! Me! Finally!
Friday, November 20, 2009
This is gonna hurt
My personal trainer has started his own blog. To his everlasting credit, he asked me—the keeper of all empirical truth and the best and most humble blogger in the entire known universe—for a few pointers. And he listened to my most important recommendation, the one I never listen to myself: Keep it short.
His blog is still pretty new, but he seems to update it frequently. And he packs his entries with thoughtful, useful, short workouts and nutrition recommendations. And I can personally vouch for most of the workouts because he inflicts them on me before he releases them to the general public.
So in the spirit of spreading the gospel of good workouts, I send you to Hank’s blog: H4 Training. And if you follow his tips and suddenly find yourself getting crazy wicked hot, please send pictures.
His blog is still pretty new, but he seems to update it frequently. And he packs his entries with thoughtful, useful, short workouts and nutrition recommendations. And I can personally vouch for most of the workouts because he inflicts them on me before he releases them to the general public.
So in the spirit of spreading the gospel of good workouts, I send you to Hank’s blog: H4 Training. And if you follow his tips and suddenly find yourself getting crazy wicked hot, please send pictures.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
One year ago today
I officially succumbed to the plague of aging gay male vanity and I met with my personal trainer for the first time. I had one goal: get huuuuuuuge. Plus not look 40. Plus maybe get a modeling contract with Hot Topic.
And since I was forking over staggering amounts of money in personal training fees anyway, I used what was left of my credit card to invest in a private warehouse of hardcore training supplements too. And I hired a nutritionist to make sure I wasn’t sabotaging my gym efforts every time I stuffed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down my throat. (It turns out my three-sandwich-a-day habit wasn’t the best thing for my personal transformation, but it wasn’t the worst either. And if I just cut down on the jelly, my nutritionist assured me I could still enjoy my thrice-daily fix without much guilt.)
Right before I hired my trainer, someone forwarded me this time-lapse video of a guy going from noticeably out of shape to distractingly in shape:
It was the perfect complement to my vanity binge, and I decided to record my progress in my own video … which would probably get me right in with the Hot Topic people once it went globally viral on YouTube. I also thought I could make a WAY cooler video because I’d QC my surroundings so it didn’t look like I lived in a Dumpster. Plus I’d use something ironic for music. Like I Feel Pretty. Or You Must Love Me. Or Ladies Who Lunch. Or I’m Still Here.
So I dug out my tripod (an impulse purchase I’d made years ago that finally had a purpose!) and set up my camera and snapped a picture of myself in my gym shorts the night before my first training session. Then I waited until the next Friday and did it again. I decided I’d take my pictures on Friday nights since I get up early to run on Saturdays so I usually don’t have Friday-night plans. Like a loser.
But after two months, the pictures I’d pulled off the camera didn’t show much progress. Plus we actually had a surprising number of Friday-night plans so I kept forgetting to take more pictures. Plus we didn’t have room to set up the tripod in a permanent location with permanent footprints taped on the floor, so I wasn’t ending up in the same place in every picture I took.
And when I finally decided to get the video started, I fired up the free iMovie software on my computer … and promptly accomplished nothing. iMovie is NOT very intuitive. Even when I read through the tutorials, I still couldn’t figure out how to upload my photos, move them so my body was generally in the same place in each one, and create a movie that scrolled through the images at a fast, even, wow-look-at-that-dramatic-transformation speed.
So by the fourth month, my grand video project had become little more than a folder of pictures hogging space on my hard drive. And while I was definitely growing, I wasn’t growing dramatically. So my dreams of hugeness, YouTube stardom and Hot Topic celebrity modelhood died. As they should. Because I probably would have made a 40-year-old fool (OK, a bigger 40-year-old fool) of myself by making this video and then actually showing it to people.
But! One year later I’m in the best shape of my life. I have more energy, I feel healthy, I sleep well (possibly too well), I fill out my shirts like I’ve never filled out my shirts before … and I seem to have advanced a level in You’re Cute So I’ll Talk To You®, the silent blood sport that takes place everywhere gay men gather in tight clothing. Which is not necessarily an accomplishment, but when you’re terminally shy around strangers, bar talk with a vapid social climber is far more fun than hiding in a corner behind a leafy plant.
Plus! Today is just the first of a string of epic anniversaries I’m celebrating in July. (Actually, it’s the second. Sunday was the two-year anniversary of my proposal to the domestic partner. But we both forgot about it and he was out of town anyway and we still haven’t nailed down what we want to do for a wedding so we’ll just celebrate that anniversary the next time around.)
And since I was forking over staggering amounts of money in personal training fees anyway, I used what was left of my credit card to invest in a private warehouse of hardcore training supplements too. And I hired a nutritionist to make sure I wasn’t sabotaging my gym efforts every time I stuffed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down my throat. (It turns out my three-sandwich-a-day habit wasn’t the best thing for my personal transformation, but it wasn’t the worst either. And if I just cut down on the jelly, my nutritionist assured me I could still enjoy my thrice-daily fix without much guilt.)
Right before I hired my trainer, someone forwarded me this time-lapse video of a guy going from noticeably out of shape to distractingly in shape:
It was the perfect complement to my vanity binge, and I decided to record my progress in my own video … which would probably get me right in with the Hot Topic people once it went globally viral on YouTube. I also thought I could make a WAY cooler video because I’d QC my surroundings so it didn’t look like I lived in a Dumpster. Plus I’d use something ironic for music. Like I Feel Pretty. Or You Must Love Me. Or Ladies Who Lunch. Or I’m Still Here.
So I dug out my tripod (an impulse purchase I’d made years ago that finally had a purpose!) and set up my camera and snapped a picture of myself in my gym shorts the night before my first training session. Then I waited until the next Friday and did it again. I decided I’d take my pictures on Friday nights since I get up early to run on Saturdays so I usually don’t have Friday-night plans. Like a loser.
But after two months, the pictures I’d pulled off the camera didn’t show much progress. Plus we actually had a surprising number of Friday-night plans so I kept forgetting to take more pictures. Plus we didn’t have room to set up the tripod in a permanent location with permanent footprints taped on the floor, so I wasn’t ending up in the same place in every picture I took.
And when I finally decided to get the video started, I fired up the free iMovie software on my computer … and promptly accomplished nothing. iMovie is NOT very intuitive. Even when I read through the tutorials, I still couldn’t figure out how to upload my photos, move them so my body was generally in the same place in each one, and create a movie that scrolled through the images at a fast, even, wow-look-at-that-dramatic-transformation speed.
So by the fourth month, my grand video project had become little more than a folder of pictures hogging space on my hard drive. And while I was definitely growing, I wasn’t growing dramatically. So my dreams of hugeness, YouTube stardom and Hot Topic celebrity modelhood died. As they should. Because I probably would have made a 40-year-old fool (OK, a bigger 40-year-old fool) of myself by making this video and then actually showing it to people.
But! One year later I’m in the best shape of my life. I have more energy, I feel healthy, I sleep well (possibly too well), I fill out my shirts like I’ve never filled out my shirts before … and I seem to have advanced a level in You’re Cute So I’ll Talk To You®, the silent blood sport that takes place everywhere gay men gather in tight clothing. Which is not necessarily an accomplishment, but when you’re terminally shy around strangers, bar talk with a vapid social climber is far more fun than hiding in a corner behind a leafy plant.
Plus! Today is just the first of a string of epic anniversaries I’m celebrating in July. (Actually, it’s the second. Sunday was the two-year anniversary of my proposal to the domestic partner. But we both forgot about it and he was out of town anyway and we still haven’t nailed down what we want to do for a wedding so we’ll just celebrate that anniversary the next time around.)
Friday, April 17, 2009
PAIN PAIN PAIN
My trainer must have figured out he’s on trainer probation as we inch up to my trainer-package renewal date because he’s finally started treating me like the dirty little punching bag I am. He has now kicked my butt into a beaten, whimpering pulp three sessions in a row. And now that it appears he’s finally gotten over the fear of breaking me, I think that when these current sessions end I’m gonna crawl back for 36 more. I just need to sell a kidney to pay for them first. Which might totally take me down a waist size in my jeans!
In the mean time! Marathon training officially starts tomorrow. Which means pretty soon I’ll have to stop doing leg workouts. Which I hope means we’ll just hit my chest even harder each week. And then maybe I can finally be a teen supermodel.
After running two Chicago Marathons on my own and three under the auspices of the AIDS Marathon training program, I’m trying something new this year. Four friends and I decided we like the structure and the camaraderie that come with a team training program, but we don’t get much out of the AIDS Marathon’s run-walk-run training philosophy. Or its rah-rah pep meetings. Or its stand-around-for-45-minutes-before-we-run training schedule. Or its nobody-looks-good-in-yellow yellow marathon tank tops. So we’re starting our own training team. And we each invited a handful of friends to join us. Our current head count is 17 people, but I get the feeling we’ll lose some of them before the month is out. So we should end up with a good 10ish dedicated runners who can push each other all summer. And I’m so excited about it I could just … well, run.
When we organized our team, we had three simple rules: 1) You have to be fun. Because nobody wants to be stuck on a 20-mile run with boring people. 2) You have to be dedicated to beating a 4:00 marathon goal. I’m tired of being in the 4:00+ crowd every year, and I’m hoping our no-walk training program plus our collective marathon experience will propel all of us into the rarefied world of 3:00-something finishing times. 3) You have to go to brunch after our runs. Or else you will be talked about. And nobody wants that.
In the mean time, we have to pick a team name and maybe make team shirts so people think we’re a legitimate training group. I’m currently at a loss for ideas, but fortunately we’re not too proud to take suggestions from faithful (or even not-so-faithful) blog readers. Matthew and his camera are currently on vacation in Peru (some people are so lazy they’ll do anything to get out of a three-mile run), so I’ll be doing the Joe Photo duties tomorrow. Look for our first (mostly) team photo on here before the weekend is out. Then brace yourself for another summer of marathon posts. This time with no begging for sponsorships!
But you’re not totally off the hook! If you want to sponsor an AIDS Marathon runner, I’ll be posting links to my friends who are running in the program this year just as soon as they set up their sponsorship pages.
And if you want to run the Chicago Marathon yourself, click here. But do it soon—the race is filling up fast!
In the mean time! Marathon training officially starts tomorrow. Which means pretty soon I’ll have to stop doing leg workouts. Which I hope means we’ll just hit my chest even harder each week. And then maybe I can finally be a teen supermodel.
After running two Chicago Marathons on my own and three under the auspices of the AIDS Marathon training program, I’m trying something new this year. Four friends and I decided we like the structure and the camaraderie that come with a team training program, but we don’t get much out of the AIDS Marathon’s run-walk-run training philosophy. Or its rah-rah pep meetings. Or its stand-around-for-45-minutes-before-we-run training schedule. Or its nobody-looks-good-in-yellow yellow marathon tank tops. So we’re starting our own training team. And we each invited a handful of friends to join us. Our current head count is 17 people, but I get the feeling we’ll lose some of them before the month is out. So we should end up with a good 10ish dedicated runners who can push each other all summer. And I’m so excited about it I could just … well, run.
When we organized our team, we had three simple rules: 1) You have to be fun. Because nobody wants to be stuck on a 20-mile run with boring people. 2) You have to be dedicated to beating a 4:00 marathon goal. I’m tired of being in the 4:00+ crowd every year, and I’m hoping our no-walk training program plus our collective marathon experience will propel all of us into the rarefied world of 3:00-something finishing times. 3) You have to go to brunch after our runs. Or else you will be talked about. And nobody wants that.
In the mean time, we have to pick a team name and maybe make team shirts so people think we’re a legitimate training group. I’m currently at a loss for ideas, but fortunately we’re not too proud to take suggestions from faithful (or even not-so-faithful) blog readers. Matthew and his camera are currently on vacation in Peru (some people are so lazy they’ll do anything to get out of a three-mile run), so I’ll be doing the Joe Photo duties tomorrow. Look for our first (mostly) team photo on here before the weekend is out. Then brace yourself for another summer of marathon posts. This time with no begging for sponsorships!
But you’re not totally off the hook! If you want to sponsor an AIDS Marathon runner, I’ll be posting links to my friends who are running in the program this year just as soon as they set up their sponsorship pages.
And if you want to run the Chicago Marathon yourself, click here. But do it soon—the race is filling up fast!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I have discovered the tenth circle of hell
It’s the Circle of One-Armed Pull-Ups. And it’s populated by horribly vain gymbunnies with distractingly wide lats. And the searing pain in those lats is the source of all the fires in all the rest of hell.
But while we’re on the subject, I’m still gonna brag that I did three sets of 10 one-armed pull-ups on each side this morning. And I am now reduced to typing this blog post with my nose. And can one of you be a dear and come scratch my elbow for me? Thanks.
I also discovered a new weapon in having kick-ass workouts last night. (Sorry … this post looks like it’s gonna be all about myundying vanity selfless dedication to physical fitness. I probably should have warned you sooner.) My friend Jason just joined my gym, and he asked me if I could work out with him to kick-start his own mission to gain size. And I, easily flattered into anything if you tell me how big I look always willing to spread the gospel of physical fitness, readily agreed. So last night I took him through my favorite chest and triceps workouts. He’d never done any hardcore lifting, and he wisely refrained from trying to look like an asshole a hero by lifting more weight than he could manage.
I, on the other hand, can’t say the same thing about myself. I lifted close to my maximum weightbecause I had a spotter to show off to my friend how freakin’ macho I am. But vanity wins again! Because I gave myself one of the best chest and triceps workouts I’ve had in a long time. And then this morning my trainer pushed me down the stairs and ran over me with his Zamboni of Destruction pushed me down the stairs into the tenth circle of hell with a back and biceps workout that could kill an actual human. Which means he finally got the pitch that my vanity is way more important to me than my personal comfort!
Now all I need is the feeling to come back in my upper body. And Ryan Seacrest to try and high-five me. And to learn to type faster with my nose. And for one of you to finally come scratch my freakin’ elbow like you promised. It itches like hell.
But while we’re on the subject, I’m still gonna brag that I did three sets of 10 one-armed pull-ups on each side this morning. And I am now reduced to typing this blog post with my nose. And can one of you be a dear and come scratch my elbow for me? Thanks.
I also discovered a new weapon in having kick-ass workouts last night. (Sorry … this post looks like it’s gonna be all about my
I, on the other hand, can’t say the same thing about myself. I lifted close to my maximum weight
Now all I need is the feeling to come back in my upper body. And Ryan Seacrest to try and high-five me. And to learn to type faster with my nose. And for one of you to finally come scratch my freakin’ elbow like you promised. It itches like hell.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
In which I probably come off as gym-snobby
There was a very large woman working out with a trainer this morning at my gym. After a recent diet of The Biggest Loser marathons and the new DietTribe (the latter mostly to drool over trainer Jessie Pavelka, for whom the domestic partner and I would dump each other faster than you can say ILoveYouJessiePavelka), my first inclination was to congratulate this woman for her commitment to fitness and to do everything not-creepy that I could to encourage her whenever I see her.
Working out with (or even without) a trainer at 7:00 am requires a shit-ton of work. I get up at 5:45 so I can be dressed and breakfasted and out the door by 6:10 to catch my bus, get to the gym, get changed, brush my teeth (so I don’t gag my trainer as I grunt and groan) and be stretched and warmed up and ready for my ass-kicking by 7:00. I have to pack my high-protein, high-green-vegetable lunch and my clothes and make my before-and-after protein shakes the night before. I forfeit weeknight activities with friends and Law & Order reruns with the domestic partner and delicious, delicious, delicious cakes and cookies so I can be rested and properly fueled to get the most out of my I-don’t-want-to-think-about-how-much-this-costs hour of training.
Whew! I sure can write a long paragraph! Who knew? But back to the woman from long paragraph 1. When I first noticed her, she was doing warmup curls with a bar that didn’t have any weights on it. Then her trainer put a 10-pound weight on each end of the bar … and all heck broke loose. The woman did NOT want to curl 20 more pounds of weight. She whined and pouted and got angry, while her trainer steadfastly insisted she get over herself and do what she was told. And while yes, the woman was the customer and therefore technically always right, she had no doubt put forth at least half the preparation efforts I go through just to be there this morning … and then she decided to waste all her time and effort by not wanting to participate in 60 minutes of expertly guided, confusion-free, grotesquely expensive exercise.
I have a ton of reasons for showing up at my gym three mornings a week and twice on the weekends. They range from health to vanity, but they’re mostly about vanity. 40-year-old-gay-man vanity. Which can be the least rational kind. But I’d bet vanity is the driving force behind every gym membership … and certainly every personal trainer session. And while I’m not invested enough in this woman’s life to really care that she let her inertia overcome her own vanity and health goals, I was amazed how fast her outburst took me from admiration to irritation this morning.
But enough of that. This morning I also made friends with an off-duty trainer who was wandering the gym floor trolling for clients. After spending a few minutes in requisite small talk with me, he clearly looked disappointed when I told him I already had a trainer. But he kept coming back for more small talk. And lots of eye contact. And even more small talk. And since I was working out on my own today, I actually had little pockets of time to chat. And since he was 25ish and kinda dreamy and clearly not just chatting … well, let’s just say my 40-year-old-gay-man vanity had a very good morning.
Working out with (or even without) a trainer at 7:00 am requires a shit-ton of work. I get up at 5:45 so I can be dressed and breakfasted and out the door by 6:10 to catch my bus, get to the gym, get changed, brush my teeth (so I don’t gag my trainer as I grunt and groan) and be stretched and warmed up and ready for my ass-kicking by 7:00. I have to pack my high-protein, high-green-vegetable lunch and my clothes and make my before-and-after protein shakes the night before. I forfeit weeknight activities with friends and Law & Order reruns with the domestic partner and delicious, delicious, delicious cakes and cookies so I can be rested and properly fueled to get the most out of my I-don’t-want-to-think-about-how-much-this-costs hour of training.
Whew! I sure can write a long paragraph! Who knew? But back to the woman from long paragraph 1. When I first noticed her, she was doing warmup curls with a bar that didn’t have any weights on it. Then her trainer put a 10-pound weight on each end of the bar … and all heck broke loose. The woman did NOT want to curl 20 more pounds of weight. She whined and pouted and got angry, while her trainer steadfastly insisted she get over herself and do what she was told. And while yes, the woman was the customer and therefore technically always right, she had no doubt put forth at least half the preparation efforts I go through just to be there this morning … and then she decided to waste all her time and effort by not wanting to participate in 60 minutes of expertly guided, confusion-free, grotesquely expensive exercise.
I have a ton of reasons for showing up at my gym three mornings a week and twice on the weekends. They range from health to vanity, but they’re mostly about vanity. 40-year-old-gay-man vanity. Which can be the least rational kind. But I’d bet vanity is the driving force behind every gym membership … and certainly every personal trainer session. And while I’m not invested enough in this woman’s life to really care that she let her inertia overcome her own vanity and health goals, I was amazed how fast her outburst took me from admiration to irritation this morning.
But enough of that. This morning I also made friends with an off-duty trainer who was wandering the gym floor trolling for clients. After spending a few minutes in requisite small talk with me, he clearly looked disappointed when I told him I already had a trainer. But he kept coming back for more small talk. And lots of eye contact. And even more small talk. And since I was working out on my own today, I actually had little pockets of time to chat. And since he was 25ish and kinda dreamy and clearly not just chatting … well, let’s just say my 40-year-old-gay-man vanity had a very good morning.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The worrying is over
My new personal trainer is a sadistic bastard. And he doesn't work just one body part at a time. No! He concocts these newfangled combination exercises that burn my quads and make my delts explode like Bill O'Reilly's head at a science convention.
And he seems like such a nice boy.
At this writing, it's been a full hour since he finished kicking my ass and taking my milk money, and I'm still not sure I'm gonna be able to keep my post-workout protein shake in my tummy. Or write a blog post that doesn't drone on and on about how hard my workout was.
But you take your chances when you read a blog. Some posts are self-indulgent and some posts are self-indulgent and boring. Come back tomorrow and I'll try to hit the blogging trifecta: self-indulgent, boring and narcissistic.
In the mean time, I have to go sit in the corner and rock myself to the gentle rhythms of the personal trainer's haiku:
And he seems like such a nice boy.
At this writing, it's been a full hour since he finished kicking my ass and taking my milk money, and I'm still not sure I'm gonna be able to keep my post-workout protein shake in my tummy. Or write a blog post that doesn't drone on and on about how hard my workout was.
But you take your chances when you read a blog. Some posts are self-indulgent and some posts are self-indulgent and boring. Come back tomorrow and I'll try to hit the blogging trifecta: self-indulgent, boring and narcissistic.
In the mean time, I have to go sit in the corner and rock myself to the gentle rhythms of the personal trainer's haiku:
Feel the burn. Feel it!
Now give me ten more. Or I'll
Make fun of your shoes.
Now give me ten more. Or I'll
Make fun of your shoes.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I totally got dumped by my personal trainer
OK. That’s a gross exaggeration of the truth. Kind of like “Rod Blagojevich is an enthusiastic politician.”
But the fact remains that I totally got dumped by my personal trainer. He was promoted to management, see, and apparently managers don’t have to touch sweaty people at my gym. But he was a great trainer, and though I’ll miss the way he kicked my ass twice a week, I’m sure he’ll be just as awesome at his new job.
And now I have to break in a new trainer. I started with the poor guy this morning, and as he was gauging what kinds of weight I could lift and what he thinks I need to work on, I was gauging just how much of my sense of humor he could handle at 7:00 in the morning. My first impression: He seems too nice to kick my ass the way I need it to be kicked. But he also seems to know his stuff. And he’s very motivating to look at, if you know what I mean. And now that our meet-n-greet is out of the way, I hope he gets down to ass-kicking business and makes me hurl by the end of the week.
In other gym news, I crushed my right thumb between two dumbbells on Sunday … and the pain about made me scream like a girl in front of all the meatheads at my neighborhood gym. Thankfully, I managed to keep my composure and maintain some semblance of gym-appropriate dignity. My thumb was still bendy in all the right places so I assumed it wasn’t broken, but the damn thing swelled up like a boob on a starlet by the end of the day. And it made little projects like unscrewing the toothpaste and zipping up my pants and sending text messages and governing Illinois with a modicum of integrity pretty challenging. I tried to take a side-by-side comparison of my thumbs with my camera phone yesterday, but I needed an extra thumb to push the button. But don’t think I didn’t try anyway. More than once. Just to be sure. And by the time I got home to the domestic partner’s extra thumbs last night, the swelling had gone down. So I have nothing impressive to show you. But I’ll make it up to you somehow. Maybe with some pix of my massive new man-chest. Assuming I don’t get dumped by this trainer as well.
But the fact remains that I totally got dumped by my personal trainer. He was promoted to management, see, and apparently managers don’t have to touch sweaty people at my gym. But he was a great trainer, and though I’ll miss the way he kicked my ass twice a week, I’m sure he’ll be just as awesome at his new job.
And now I have to break in a new trainer. I started with the poor guy this morning, and as he was gauging what kinds of weight I could lift and what he thinks I need to work on, I was gauging just how much of my sense of humor he could handle at 7:00 in the morning. My first impression: He seems too nice to kick my ass the way I need it to be kicked. But he also seems to know his stuff. And he’s very motivating to look at, if you know what I mean. And now that our meet-n-greet is out of the way, I hope he gets down to ass-kicking business and makes me hurl by the end of the week.
In other gym news, I crushed my right thumb between two dumbbells on Sunday … and the pain about made me scream like a girl in front of all the meatheads at my neighborhood gym. Thankfully, I managed to keep my composure and maintain some semblance of gym-appropriate dignity. My thumb was still bendy in all the right places so I assumed it wasn’t broken, but the damn thing swelled up like a boob on a starlet by the end of the day. And it made little projects like unscrewing the toothpaste and zipping up my pants and sending text messages and governing Illinois with a modicum of integrity pretty challenging. I tried to take a side-by-side comparison of my thumbs with my camera phone yesterday, but I needed an extra thumb to push the button. But don’t think I didn’t try anyway. More than once. Just to be sure. And by the time I got home to the domestic partner’s extra thumbs last night, the swelling had gone down. So I have nothing impressive to show you. But I’ll make it up to you somehow. Maybe with some pix of my massive new man-chest. Assuming I don’t get dumped by this trainer as well.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Working out with my trainer is like crack to me
I get exponentially better workouts when he’s kicking my ass. My muscles hurt longer and more profoundly. I feel sick to my stomach for a good four hours after he’s done with me. And no matter how much I eat, I’m constantly, gnawingly hungry as I recover.
It takes about 48 hours after a workout for me to feel normal again. And when I do, I also feel deflated and sluggish. And pretty much all I can think about is when I’ll get my next sweaty, excruciating endorphin fix.
My name’s Jake. And I’m addicted to getting my ass kicked.
Which means I should be extremely pleasant to be around by Sunday, when I’ve gone all soft and couch-potatoey after four days of forced leisure with my family in Iowa. If you feel the earth shake, it will probably just be me fidgeting and pacing as I count down the minutes until I can get back in the gym. And all the pie flab in my thighs probably won’t help matters much.
But before we can get all the excitement started, we have some driving to do. And then some eating to accomplish. And then a niece and nephew to entertain. Possibly by bench pressing them.
I hope your Thanksgiving is as fulfilling as mine promises to be!
It takes about 48 hours after a workout for me to feel normal again. And when I do, I also feel deflated and sluggish. And pretty much all I can think about is when I’ll get my next sweaty, excruciating endorphin fix.
My name’s Jake. And I’m addicted to getting my ass kicked.
Which means I should be extremely pleasant to be around by Sunday, when I’ve gone all soft and couch-potatoey after four days of forced leisure with my family in Iowa. If you feel the earth shake, it will probably just be me fidgeting and pacing as I count down the minutes until I can get back in the gym. And all the pie flab in my thighs probably won’t help matters much.
But before we can get all the excitement started, we have some driving to do. And then some eating to accomplish. And then a niece and nephew to entertain. Possibly by bench pressing them.
I hope your Thanksgiving is as fulfilling as mine promises to be!
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