Yesterday I had my free introductory personal training session. Free, like a free lunch when you've spent five hundred quid on flights to New York.
The trainer was gorgeous, a raven-haired David Beckham with the intellect to match. I managed to gaze adoringly without even the hint of a smirk as he explained the complexity of weight loss. Through the use of a diagram of a see-saw he showed that to lose weight, and this'll knock your socks off, ... you need to burn more calories than you take in. After ten minutes of explanation and assurances from me that yes, I did get it, he went on to discuss portion size again through the use of illustration this time of three different sized circles. He indicated that one can decrease portion size from large, to medium to small.
I declined his offer of a photocopy of a sheet, again with pictures (this time professionally drawn), of the foods in all the major food groups. I think he was satisfied with my emphatic assertion that I was sure I could find the information on the net should the need arise.
That done we had the session. Not that kind of session, you forget I operate on a purely look but don't touch policy (much to the husband's dismay when I continue to practice this at home). So he introduces me to what is essentially a washing machine on a spin cycle and wants me to squat on it. I start to wonder exactly where the camera for this low-budget porn film is secreted. But, apparenly Madonna uses this 'power-plate' so I carry on safe in the knowledge that at the worst case senario at least this machine will enable me to adopt a Malawian orphan.
Most of the session was doing toning excercises and I finished a little underwhelmed, barely having broken a sweat and not sure it had been worth my time.
This morning, after a spontaneous inter-continental dash yesterday afternoon, I awoke in Brussels with every single muscle in my body screaming, so it had done something. The friend I stayed with, also in the first flush of gyming, took me to her local club today to work off last night's boozing. In this club I discovered that, as I had always suspected, gravity has a far stronger pull in Belgium as both pairs of scales at her club erred on the side of my sister's scales rather than my clubs. Amazing weight loss? Not so much.
We did a class, Body Attack. The trainer instructing mainly in French sprinkled in the odd English words as added motivation. Words like 'don't stop', 'harder', 'push it'. I'm uncordinated at the best of times. Without understanding the instructions my spasmodic-jerking in a room full of lithe, skimply-clad stick insects meant that I was constantly jumping when they were river-dancing, side stepping when they were star-jumping and threatening to take them out with my flaling arms at every euro-pop beat.
Suffice to say I won't be welcome back, and I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to walk again.