Posted by: martinworster | April 4, 2008

85. PERSONAL TRAINER

I haven’t got a personal assistant, make up artist, therapist, chef, image consultant or publicist, but with my recently employment of a personal trainer I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. I’m in LA baby. I turn 35 very soon and I thought it was about time to combat that flabby mid riff and the extra chin that’s smiling unattractively at me from beneath my mouth. It’s kind of depressing to think that the shadow of middle age is tapping me on the shoulder like an annoying and unwelcomed friend.

I was a bit taken back on first meeting my personal trainer Brad. He was portly and overweight, clearly not practicing what he preached. It was like taking French lessons from someone who got an F in his GCSEs. Slightly disconcerting.

At our first consultation he measured my weight, asked various questions and took down other dimensions using a fat grabber instrument that looked like a sexton. He computed all the data and then traced his finger along the chart for my releveant age, height and weight to the heading ‘Needs Improvement’. My fat percentage was 26%. I’m a quarter blubber. It was a case of Togs R Me. Yes, according to the statistics I was over weight. I was shocked. If I’m overweight, then what does that make everyone else in this supersized country?

I looked around the gym as Brad started to outline my fitness plan. In any gym in image conscious Orange County it’s always a tad deflating. Blond twigs with boobs saunter by with perfect ‘asses’ and sculpted cheek bones. The men could give Adonis a run for his money. Grandmothers with the bodies of teenagers hack on Stairmeisters without even a hint of perspiration appearing on their Botox happy lips.

As part of the scheme I would also have to enter everything I ate on a website that records the calories of everything I eat, a shocking calorie tracker. It’s going to be difficult. Maybe this is the optimum me, I will never be able to compete with all the Body Beautifuls and I should throw the Coors Lite in the bin and drown my sorrows with an extra fat Stella.

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