It's all about the hummus....

I discovered recently that picking a personal trainer that fits you is as challenging and important as picking a therapist, or a boyfriend. Indeed folks, not any old person with an ego and a penchant for weightlifting will do. Because value systems and personalities are as varied as the snowflakes outside this nasty winter day, one must carefully observe and investigate prior to investing one's life savings.

Granted, I am not actually looking for a trainer at the moment. I merely took advantage of an opportunity for a *free* session at the gym I just joined. The gym at which I sit at this very moment, waiting for food to digest so that I can run three miles while watching either '80s music videos or the Saturday afternoon flick of the week on my treadmill.

Last week I embarked on a one-hour training session with a gentleman who insisted on me telling him my life story. I refused but he insisted. Finally I began to very plainly say that I was overweight, having some challenges with my esteem and wanting to change that, only when I began to speak, he interrupted me to relay his life story. It was one that revolved around the tragedy of a motorbike accident, which led to him losing his muscle mass and clients, it was meant to inspire me but instead left me asking, so what? But mostly because during the whole story he kept saying: "I know EXACTLY what you are going through.." He then proceeded to ask me what my diet was, when I told him about my fairly regular lunch meal of hummus and veggies, his eyes glazed over. "What is hummus?" he asked.

I almost fell out of my chair. I explained, "It's ground chick peas, garlic, lemon....wait, you never heard of it?" He hadn't. He unabashedly stated that if it was not something that was served at Applebee's or TGIFs then he wouldn't know. OMG. This is Chicago, folks, you can't throw a stone without hitting a restaurant that serves hummus. But he, a native Chicagoan, had never heard of it. Sigh. It went downhill from there. He measured my body parts, including my chest, insisting (albeit in a non-creepy way) it was necessary. Asked me my height-5'6-but he wrote down 5'7. Asked me my weight and exclaimed I was the exact same weight and height as his wife. You know, 5'7 and *** pounds. Exactly the same. He then told me his wife used to be over 200 pounds but he got her to lose weight....just like he could help me.

When we got to the work-out portion, he made me jump up and down for about 5 minutes to warm up. I wanted to kill him. I told him so. I think he thought it was because it was *hard* but after several men walked by smirking at my bouncy heaving chest, I really considered punching him in the face. He then had me weight-lifting-it was fun and moderately challenging. At the end, he asked me if it was a good work out and I told him the truth, that it was ok. I am a novice at weights and though I consider myself pretty athletic, by the end of this experience I was not entirely sure. He asked me if there was any way I could work his training into my budget, I flat out said no, and waited for the pain to come. The notorious, day-after-a-good-work-out pain, the I-can-barely-walk pain. It never came. I had some soreness, but nothing worth mentioning. I knew then that the gut-feeling I had was right-I AM athletic and strong, but this guy looked at me and saw my weight and assumed I was a lot weaker and out of shape than I am. The biggest problem with this guy is he didn't SEE me or HEAR me at all.

I ran into him 3 days later, and he asked if I was sore. I told the truth again. Not a bit. He smiled and said "Well, I'll have to get you back in and remedy that!" I didn't have the heart to tell him I would never ever use him as a trainer......but I know now that budget permitting, I am definitely going to be very selective next time around. And the first question I will ask any potential trainer is if they like hummus.

Took the day off because I was birthed today. 32 years ago. Woot.

Don't got much too say. 'Cepting it's my birthday. Was born some 32 years ago.

Thinking mebbe the thing to say is whut's done been said already. Lookee here at one o' muh best friends words. They nice and proper they is.




http://abilynn.wordpress.com/2009/11/12/mx3d-ignls/Women's Bain-analyzing a thing too damn much

False Memories

I have noticed lately that when I tell some stories from my past, certain folks have begun to claim my experiences as their own. Hating acorn squash and sitting at the table for hours until I came to my senses to eat it, is now apparently something that my brother remembers as being his story.

Having a friend who had partied too hard accidentally pee all over my things on a trip to New Orleans many years ago is now apparently something that happened to my friend Margo. She also claims I was sharing the bed with the same partied-out friend. Although the reality is that SHE and I were sharing a bed, and I was the one who woke up to my phone ringing (my grandfather had passed away and someone was trying to tell me)only to discover the sound of running water nowhere near the sink of the bathroom. Upon inspection, I discovered the source, dangerously close to my belongings stashed on the floor next to said-partied-out friend's bed. I had to hand-wash my sweater and later tossed out my purse. Gross gross. But Margo swore up and down that the memory happened to her.

I was indignant of course-how dare she take my own awesome victim-story, one worthy of the eye-popping looks of disgust I sometimes crave for attention. Oh no she didn't. I set her straight in an accomodating, reluctant-to-start-a-fight way by conceding that she must have woken up after me, while it was still happening, and I pointed it out to her. She settled into that explanation, but even that is not true. What is true, is that 2 hours later, when the alarm went off and the six of us who were crammed into that room got up to get ready to drive back to Houston, I pulled her aside and told her. I know this assuredly because this was the weekend Grandpa died and most of these details are burned into my memory as a result. Less than three hours later I was in a van crying my eyes out while my slightly awkward, hungover friends were silent and unsure of what to do with me.

But was I really certain? It brings to mind a lot of questions. I mean, if brother and Margo were as certain as I know I am, what's to say they aren't the ones with the rightful ownership of these memories and I am the thief of the story? How reliable are our brains really, and why does this happen?

I have read articles about studies regarding witness testimony and how unreliable that is, how much we are all influenced by our own biases and how hard it is really, to give accurate descriptions given the numerous factors that get in the way, both external and internal. There are a lot of articles and studies done on false memories, as well. Apparently the only way to determine which of our memories is true is through outside collaboration. Although my petty self would not mind doing this, I know the other people involved probably cannot be bothered.

That being said, I am going to go ahead and exercise my virtue of detachment and....move on.