Pain in the pursuit of perfection

Tired of beating myself up, I've decided to pay a stranger $65 an hour to do it for me. As you might imagine, this works out pretty well for the other guy.

He gets a nice payday, the fun of watching me suffer and a chance to use me as a guinea pig for any new exercise idea he has that he's unwilling to try on himself first. The other fellow, George, calls the whole thing "personal training," making him a "personal trainer," which sounds a lot better than "guy who makes you exercise until you wish for death."

Actually, George has such strong dedication that if I keeled over during a session, I'm sure he'd be able to get five more reps out of me. He's actually a nice guy, which is rare for a profession in which way too many people get their inspiration from either the movie version of an army drill sergeant or 80s faux German wrestling villain Baron von Raschke.

Despite George's nice streak, the basic tenets of his line of work require a certain level of meanness. Realistically, if he didn't push me to work out hard, I would jog on the treadmill for a few minutes and do a few dumbbell curls before heading home for hours of Ring Ding-fueled television watching. Even with George's kind-hearted approach to getting me into shape, my workouts have involved a great deal of pain. Apparently, despite science and John Goodman's best efforts to repute the theory, the concept of "no pain, no gain" remains in effect.

Unfortunately, whatever suffering happens during the workout pales in comparison to the pain felt afterwards, especially the next morning. Though I was in relatively good cardiovascular condition before entering training, my weight lifting regimen had been limited to carrying the occasional heavy bag of groceries.

This has left me weak as a kitten (though to be fair, my kitten can actually take me in a fight because she has pointy teeth) and not fit enough to get in shape without my body putting up a mighty struggle. Due to this lack of familiarity with hefting heavy objects, my last workout with George left me unable to put my hands over my head without considerable pain.

This made brushing my teeth difficult, combing my hair nearly impossible and showering an act of contortion worthy of a job with the Ringling Brothers. I've pretty much had to give up wearing sweaters in favor of easier to put on button-down shirts, and my ability to shave decreases substantially as I move up my face.

Although my body may be in slightly better condition, my personal hygiene has certainly suffered as result. If this continues, I'll have the body of an Olympic runner with the oily sheen and foul odor of an Olympic official. Hopefully, the road ahead gets easier, as my somewhat mushy physique becomes, if not Schwarzeneggerian, at least a little less Aykroyd-esque. I'd settle for marginally larger muscles and the return of my ability to raise my hand.