My arms hurt, my legs ache, every movement is an agony. After an absence of far too long I have become reacquainted with the medium of exercise and all the muscles in my body are complaining furiously about this turn of events.
Exercise and I have not always been such strangers. For many years religiously, week after week, a very patient personal trainer would arrive at my house carrying a plethora of items all guaranteed to stretch, pummel and push me into fitness. Then I lost my job and, despite having access to a free gym not more than five minutes drive away, my body sank into a depression of cup-cakes, cheese and vats of alcohol.
A few weeks ago a solitary tennis lesson left me on my knees on the court, gasping for breath, and so I reasoned it was time to bite the bullet again. Some research later and I make contact with Paul. Now, Paul is an ex-boxer and that is a large part of why I chose him. There is clearly a latent but hugely aggressive streak in me and boxing allows me to vent my fury at the day. My next-door neighbours, upon first hearing me back "in the ring", sent anxious emails about my husband's state of health. On this occasion I reassured then. However given that the afore-mentioned husband does not believe that women are able to box with any credibility, it may not be long before he does leave the house with a face sporting all the colours of the rainbow.
So to Paul. He is from Liverpool and, not that the two go together, he is evil personified. Comparing him to my last trainer would be akin to comparing Alistair Campbell to George Washington. I should have realised what I was taking on when, after the first session, he spoke about the need to train four times a week as a minimum. When he wasn't there, he expected me to be running, skipping, jumping; he wanted results.
Enjoying a much needed glass of wine one night with my concerned neighbours, I struggled to my feet, wincing with every movement.
"I can't believe it" I moaned. "I hurt so much and I am exhausted. He keeps telling me how he wants 100% from me".
Mrs Neighbour leans forward and shakes her head.
"100%?" She looks aghast. "No, that's not right. You need to keep something back"
"?"
"Never, ever give anyone 100%" She was emphatic on this point. "You tell him you are giving 100% but you deliver 90%. You always keep 10% for yourself"
An interesting point and an excellent dictum to keep in mind for life in general. Actually, I feel sure that part of the effort I expend is in my facial expressions alone as I battle with each new torture Paul inflicts on me.
In fairness, he is a nice, friendly sort of bloke. Indeed, not only is he fit (in both meanings of the word), he is also very chatty and, apparently, quite a good cook. He uses words like "balsamic" and "braised" and we had a very interesting conversation recently over the best cuts of beef to buy. There is just this evil streak in him that forces me to do star jumps when I am least expecting it. Which masochist invited the star-jump? As someone who is not particularly well co-ordinated, I tend to resemble a spider caught at the bottom of a very slippery sided bath, desperately trying to manoeuvre its way out but, despite all limbs flailing, going nowhere.
Notwithstanding all my complaining though, I must admit that five weeks on and I feel so much better. My energy levels are up, I can run twice the distance I could and my body is toned and defined. I actually look forward to each session and find myself pushing on a little further each week.
So evil, yes, but to get the results he has I will grudgingly admit it is a genius sort of evil.
