We all have moments or occurrences that have changed our lives. I have five: meeting my husband, meeting each of my children, and having a hysterectomy three years ago.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
Part 1
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned twenty-nine, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee—Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a forty-five-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though—and here’s my real strength—I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash—Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school—but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
