Despite the fact that it might seem out of our budget, I’ve hired a personal trainer. Yesterday was my first session with her and today my whole body hurts.
I lifted more than thirty pounds. Repeatedly. She kept making me run uphill until I had to stop. She even made me carry her a pretty good distance.
And she’s just what you’d expect. Perky. Lean. Loud. Demanding. She didn’t care that I’d been skipping workouts all summer. She didn’t care that I was tired.
"Run big!" she’d cry, and I’d oblige until the side stitch got the best of me.
"I’m just going to walk for a minute," I’d beg. "To catch my breath."
"No! Faster!" she’d yell. "More running!"
And so I’d push a little harder, a little faster. Then she would decide it was time to gauge whether I was working hard enough. "Sing a song!" she’d demand. In between labored breaths, I would belt out a tune carried completely off key. It seemed to satisfy her that I was in my target heart rate zone.
At the end of the loop, I was beat. She’d pushed me harder than I ever would have pushed myself.
All because she wanted to get to the playground—to swing and slide. She gladly accepted her payment in fruit snacks and hitched a piggy back ride to the sandbox.