No, really. It is.
But only in the gym rat sense. Not that I’m actually a gym rat, but I do have workout rodent tendencies.
Which include caring enough about working out efficiently that I have sporadic sessions with a trainer. Who. kicks. my. ass.
Not literally (that was Muay Thai), but holy hell — in every other sense.
I think that I push myself when I go alone to the gym. Push myself heck. I barely even workout if my current levels of pain are any indication.
On weeks when I know I’m going to see my trainer, the planning process goes something like this: “Okay, so I’m going to see her on Thursday, that means that I should do anything involving being able to move earlier in the week.”
It hurts to type.
It hurts to sit.
I don’t even want to talk about stairs. I don’t even want to look at the word.
When I go with the trainer, just about every final set involves me “failing” the exercise. Which is, in gym terms, a good thing. “Failing” is that moment when despite any personal fortitude, spirit, drive, even energy, your muscles will not move any more. It’s this surreal, bizarre, out-of-body moment when you find yourself staring at, willing, control over your arm/leg/abs and you can’t for the life of you get them to do anything. Your brain is sending signals and your arm isn’t picking up. Your bicep has had quite enough of your brain’s crap, and it’s put the ringer on silent and gone for a nap.
And I love it. Love it love it love it. My ass hurts so much it feels like it’s trying to detach from my body, and I couldn’t be happier. It hurts to have arms, nevermind do anything with them. I feel like a cheap action figure, where my articulated arm could pop out of its socket at any moment.
Worth every penny.