Bust A Gut

Our gym looks like anybody else’s, we’re a pretty typical place. A few treadmills, some cross-trainers, and so on. It’s not like it’s a difficult place to figure out.

But the stuff I see happen on the gym floor. Man. Wow. Un. Be. Lieve. Able.
(cirque de Bar-nay, as you might say.)

I was in the middle of giving this client a few tips the other day; mostly, we were working on abs, because aren’t we always working on abs? Short story, I was trying to find ways of helping a very pudgy client find a way to make himself have what they called on Conan (with Mila Kunis) a “two pack” – i.e., a very subtle line down the middle of one’s ab-type-section.

It would have been awesome if it had worked out according to plan.

Okay, though – getting back to the point. I had been working this client out, poking him between the quote “abs” unquote, and the poor thing had sweat literally dripping off the end of his nose as he tried to push his biceps together. It was cute because he was trying, but sad because he was…trying. What do you do with a client like that?

You shove him on the yoga ball, that’s what you do. You stand over him and count out the number of times he crunches up, his elbows splayed, fingers interlaced behind his head, back arched, groin thrusting, muscles straining. You stand on his toes, you bear your weight down on those itty bitty teeny weeny toes, and you yell down his neck that he might hear one fraction of the things you’d like to shout at him.

That’s how it works. All the while, he’s hunched over a yoga ball or an ab machine or whatever, and he’s working his behind off and you’re trying to push him that one – bit – further.

It’s weird when you find yourself standing in front of someone who you don’t trust to look after their physical fitness. Weird because you think, why wouldn’t someone look after this part of themselves? Who wants to be a great big fat slob, who wants to be one of those oozing people? You ask this of people on the street, and almost none of them would say anything other than, “Not I.”

But you start asking why they don’t want to confront the possibility that they might be contributing to the problem. You start asking why they might not care quite so much about how you, your friends, their friends, so many people who might be counted as friends might be discounted. And you wind up back at that same question.

Where are my g*d d*** abs.

Because we all want some freaking abs, don’t we. Yeah we do. We all want to feel like we could crunch up into some little curled up abfest and crack a peanut between the muscles of our waist, but we all know it’s not true.

Which is sad. But true.

Sent in by “Trainer Anonymous”

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