PT: Personal Torture

So I finally cashed in my first official personal training session today at 24-hour fitness. In my super ambitious formative days in Los Angeles I was coerced into purchasing a package of six sessions “which will infinitely elevate my results” upon signing up for my gym membership. Being new to the world of organized exercise in general, I think what the hell,  I am already paying $35 a month to torture myself, what is another $300 dollars to have a professional ensure optimal torture.

At first, I put off scheduling the sessions because I wanted to build my endurance before looking like a pathetic weakling. Which eventually turned into me going to the gym every six or so days, minus that whole month I just didn’t feel like it at all.  Whoops. Now for those of us in L.A., or the rest of you with televisions, we know that this place is a Mecca of beauty. Millions of wannabe actors, models and industry types flock to these hills everyday, their golden tans and toned tummies in tow. It really is as bad as it seems. A gym membership is as vital to get ahead as are questionable morals.

I figured since I was paying for it, I would use it. Just ask my food dehydrator. Right… The truth of the matter is that I love banana chips far more than I love sweating. So there I sat. Couch cozy, indulging in the country’s finest restaurants at my fingertips, sushi on every corner and Bossa Nova Brazilian Cuisine delivered at my doorstep at 2 a.m. All that deliciousness = fifteen or so pounds and  newly acquired jiggly (as pointed and prodded by mother on my last visit home).

Xavier, my deceptively sweet practitioner of pain, has been calling week after week trying to get my happy ass back in the gym. And while this marathon business has yielded a surprising jump in gym attendance, I have fallen into the camp that running is all I need to do. I go to the gym, run 3, 4 …2 miles and then call it a day. Better than nothing, I say. Alas, I realize I can’t get skinny on running alone. Especially since I haven’t forgone beer, and really have no intention of doing so. The catch. Apparently these damn personal trainy-ma-things expire after six months, so in order to maintain my investment I am forced to schedule a visit.

Xavier meets me at the door, smiling. Boo. I am ready though. Ready to work, get my moneys worth and feel the burn. This particular personal trainer doesn’t believe in weight machines. I began my warm-up with jump-roping, which succeeds in drenching me in sweat and making me look like a retarded cowboy in less than 5 minutes. Then we commence an arsenal of calisthenics, crazy bendy arm locomotion drills (he called the Caterpillar) and coached stretches, which actually hurt just as much as the 100 squats beforehand.   This shit was hard. Who knew a squat could cause so much pain. By the end of the 60 minutes, which I counted down by the second, my knees were shaking so much I could hardly stand. No joke.

Update: Two days later, I am still so sore I can hardly breathe. Yes, the mere motion of inhaling, expanding my lungs, makes me hurt. What the hell did this guy do to me. I feel as though I was pummeled and beaten to an invisibly bloody pulp. Running is now the last thing on my to-do list, which in some way seems counter productive. Oh, well. It’s only going to get easier. Right…?

Hello world!

Here we go. I suppose a brief introduction is in order before I get to the good parts. I am a recent California transplant from the blizzardy wonderland of northern Minnesota. My time is spent drinking, eating and playing in the sun between shifts catering to the finest of SoCal diners, writing freelance for sinninginla.com and dabbling in ‘the industry.’  I am a self editing, self deprecating dreamer who bounces about from whim to whim. My latest capricious escapade? Completing the LA Marathon.

Now I say complete instead of run because even in my most insane of moments a tiny part of me strives for grounding. So at this point in the game, completion is all we can ask for. That’s right 26.2 simple, scary, sexy, sweat-soaked miles.  This coming from the girl who complained incessantly about running the bases in gym class. I think running is the worst part of any sport (probably why I started golfing), and I maintain the platform that you should never have to  run unless something is chasing you . And now it seems, I have found another motivation. Running for a cause. I have signed on with the National AIDS Marathon Training Program which will help me safely conquer this unfathomable goal as well as raise more than $1,600 for AIDS project Los Angeles.  (www.aidsmarathon.com)  And what is even crazier than the marathon itself, is the notion that I intend to blog my way through it. Hence, Half-Fast.

I am as new the world of running as I am to the world of blogging. I have spent more time trying to set up this marathon blog than I did gaining the gumption to run the damn thing in the first place. I want it to be pretty and informative and smart. I can’t even figure out how to install a simple countdown to M-day itself. M is for Marathon, for those still paying attention. So, as with all things difficult, I am going to fake it. If you look to your right, I have included a rough count down to the Marathon day as well as a count up of miles ran, money earned and dollars spent located in its own page (titled THE COUNT). And with fingers crossed this blogging thing and my computer savvy will improve with right along with my milage. There.

I seem to have put myself in quite the predicament. Please try and keep up.