My personal trainer
Yesterday was my first session with my Personal Trainer. I’ve never had a trainer before, but after my surgery in August I figured it would be a good idea to get a professional to help me get in shape. Initially the trainer was supposed to be a 22 year-old Russian girl named Svetlana, but Rachelle told me that she’d found somebody else, a guy who was “inexpensive, not cheap.”
Whatever.
Anyway, the trainer’s name is Chunta, a Blackfoot name meaning “ Born During an Earthquake.” From what I can tell, the relationship between the Personal Trainer and the trainee proceeds along these lines:
1. You sign a cheque.
2. You sign a waiver absolving your trainer of any responsibility for the inevitable induction of a stroke, heart attack or intestinal rupture.
3. You then allow the Personal Trainer to ruin your life.
The first thing that Chunta did was inquire into my diet, quietly taking notes as I spoke (rather lovingly, I guess) of the alcohol, red meat and chocolate milk that served as my dietary staples.
“ We have much work to do,” he told me. “Your diet is out of harmony with your body. You are a Meat Dreamer, and you must learn to change your dreams if you want to change yourself.”
I nodded my head as he told me about the fruit, leaves and certain twigs (for protein) that were to comprise my new diet.
“So I’ll eat like a Chipmunk?” I asked.
“Do not underestimate the Chipmunk,” Chunta said, “ for the Chipmunk is a warrior.”
Again I nodded.
“We will start your session with a Yoga posture called The Cobra.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to start with a posture called The Chipmunk?” I asked.
“No.”
Chunta then demonstrated The Cobra, and I have to say, the posture looked pretty fucking easy. I snickered.
“You know, Chunta, I used to play hockey. I was on the second line back in high school. I think this is going to be a little too easy for me.”
He nodded.
I lay down on the floor and then began to push myself up into the instructed position, at which point I felt a terrible, hellish ripping in my left side.
I came to a few seconds later, with the trainer and Heidi– our Miniature Dachshund– looking down at me. Chunta uttered a few mysterious words in his native tongue, and then said, “Welcome back, my brave Chipmunk. You have been on quite a journey for our first session, and now you must rest.”
And then, just like the wind, he was gone, while I remained there, on the floor, the dog dozing on my chest, until Rachelle got home from work six hours later.
