Hot trainer brought a girl to our early morning session today. In his car. I saw her get out: long legs, short shorts. A soft giggle in her voice, a yoga mat under her arm. Cute little headband, no knee fat. They approached together.
He introduced us. I’m pretty sure I smiled. Put on my friendly face. Then again, I might not have. I wasn’t awake yet. And definitely wasn’t prepared to be conversational toward some random girl crawling out of my trainer’s car. Especially when he casually mentioned she’d be “working out with us.”
We headed for the track. The BLC Initiative flashed briefly through my mind. I squashed it.
Two laps as a warmup. I claimed the inside and stayed one pace ahead. She kept her distance, running in the middle lane. We didn’t chat.
Today was a leg day. My favorite. The BLC went from squashed to completely forgotten. We got to work.
Squats. Hot trainer suggested using the soccer bleachers to balance (something he’d never offered when it was just me). First set: I didn’t use it. That girl did. Second set, though, and she declined the balance aid, as well.
Donkey kicks came next. On all fours, we threaded a resistance band around one arch and anchored the ends with our hands. Kicking backward with the resistance band providing – well – resistance against our glutes, I focused on form. He complimented me. Corrected her.
Then Lunges. I’m great at lunges. I could lunge all day. He called “time” and she stopped. I added an extra lunge for good measure.
Kickboxing drills got worked in. I’m pretty sure she’s a whole lot better than me, but I don’t attempt to beat her. Hot trainer knows I love the boxing drills; I tell him every week. He also knows I’m completely uncoordinated when it comes to attempting the boxing, as he’s the one watching me every week.
No matter how hard I try, boxing makes me look a LOT like a toddler attacking a grown man…while being held at arm’s length. I literally flail around for minutes on end: I balance on the wrong leg, my hips won’t rotate, I drop my hands (thereby exposing my face to attack), forget to breathe, raise my shoulders, start to hyperventilate (due to breath forgetfulness), and can’t seem to remember any sequence involving more than one move.
All of that. Every week. Without fail.
This week, though, I was a maniac. My rear foot was well anchored. My hip moved on an axis I haven’t seen it utilize before. I exhaled with every kick. My knee solidly hit the pad…repeatedly, with a definitive “thud,” and in some semblance of rhythm…even if it was white girl rhythm. Hot trainer was surprised. Grinned. Said something similar to, “Look at you! You’re even breathing!” like a proud papa. I glowed. Or sweated profusely – it was tough to tell. But definitely I kicked harder.
Core Work was last. My kickboxing haze faded and I remembered that girl was still invading my workout space. And that my stomach was still recovering from the workout two weeks ago. But she was on her back, too, so couldn’t tell my form was falling apart.
Finally, we were done. I stretched out on my back. Breathed into my sore stomach and burning legs. Listened to Hot trainer and that girl chit chat. Stayed very still so as to not lose track of their conversation. And then realized – through shameless eavesdropping – that the girl was actually there as a favor. She’s his buddy’s fiancee.
Mentally, I searched for the lost BLC. Stood up. Stretched my quads and hamstrings. Felt bad for leaping to conclusions.
We all walked back to the cars together. I cheerily waved goodbye, actually – for real – smiled, and chimed in something akin to “Nice to meet you!”
Turns out she was a really nice girl.
Every day another story -
Sofie
Very funny and entertaining story. Loved it. I was laughing the entire way through because it’s so…you!