For the last few months I've been doing something I haven't done in years. I'm working out with a personal trainer. Her name is Brynna and she's great - a former track athlete at ULM, in her 20's, really funny, knowledgeable and fun to be around.
And I'm certain she's trying to kill me.
The other day I asked her, "Haven't you ever heard that you're supposed to be kind to your elders?"
She grinned and said, "I'm pretty sure there's a clause in that contract that says personal trainers don't count."
The last time I had someone train me was when I was Miss Louisiana and working with Sharon Turrentine. She's awesome... and brutal. We'd run stadiums at 7:00 am, 3 times a week at Neville High School in Monroe, and hit the gym on alternate days. I was younger then... by nearly 20 years.
I'm not running stadiums now, but the gym work is more intense. "Just for fun," along with my usual cardio and weight training, Brynna decided to put me on the stairmaster... ON LEVEL 10. This was AFTER I had finished the entire workout. I'm convinced she's actually a paid assassin. But instead of giving me a quick easy death, she's serving up torture. Someone must've paid her well.
The benefits? I feel great. I've worked out on my own for years, but this is more fun to me. With Brynna telling me what to do, it takes the mental part out of it. She points, I work. It's fabulous! And the ultimate payoff will be when swimsuit season arrives. Anyone up for a beach vacation?!