Published: February 16, 2009 04:29 pm      

Death by sweat

I recently resumed workouts with my trainer, Grizelda the Queen Witch of the Northwest.

Witch, I said.

No, Grizelda is not really her name. But it’s what I call her when I am face down on the floor, exhausted, breathing up carpet lint and dust bunnies, wondering if my heart is about to explode, while she orders me to get my big carcass up and give her another 20 squats.

I know, I know. I’m the one who let myself get this way. Where once I had a large, but reasonably fit physique, now I look like something that got away from a Thanksgiving Day parade. Where once I had muscles you could actually see, now I have a thick coating of what I like to call insulation. Where once I could walk for hours and come back feeling invigorated, I can’t stroll around the block without feeling like I’ve just marched to Fort Zinderneuf and back.

And it’s my own fault. Well, mine and my traitorous body’s.

It happened a couple of years ago when I had eye trouble, thyroid trouble, and heart trouble in quick succession. I stopped training and filled the empty time with eating. Lots of eating. Basically, I stuffed my face with every example of junk food on the planet, with special concentrations on the M&M and Dorito food groups.

Fast forward to last year and the scene where Mike steps on the scales at the doctor’s office and, after flinging the weights further and further to the right-hand side, the nurse lets out a low whistle and a “Wowie.”

Finally, I began to realize that there were certain problems that Oreos could not fix. I know, it’s hard to believe. But it’s true.

This led to hooking back up with Griz and resuming what some call “working out” and what I call Death By Sweat.

A typical session begins with what Grizelda says is stretching. Ha. By the time she’s finished, the footbone is no longer connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone is no longer connected to the leg bone, and so on. I’m not stretched. I’m dissembled.

“Doesn’t that feel great?” she enthuses as she sticks my right foot in back of my left ear. I presume she’s talking to herself.

From there we move on to exercises, mostly of the dumbbell sort. And yes, I’m talking about me. I was a dumbbell for ever letting this happen in the first place.

We also do some work with the gym-type dumbbells. Well, it feels like work to me, anyway. And of course, Griz serves as inspiration when, after putting me through punishing sets of bicep curls and tricep kickbacks that turn my arms into noodles, she takes the dumbbells from my hands and starts twirling them in her fingers, like batons. The show-off.

So where’s all this exercise going to take me? Beats me. Someplace healthy, I hope. Someplace where I can enjoy my life more and not feel like the Economy Size Tub O’ Lard. Someplace where I can see my shoes.

And someplace where my legs don’t turn to jelly when Grizelda makes me pick up the weights and go through another set of squats. She says we’ll get there soon. I trust she’s right. She’s the expert on exercise. I don’t know ... well, squat.

© 2009 Mike Redmond. All Rights Reserved.