D-Day The Gym Gets a Princess (Assessment Aftermath)

D-Day 7 January 2015

The Dreaded Assessment: Let's Get Physical

Assessment Lessons Learned: The Hard Way

As I lay motionless on the floor in a puddle of unicorn tears, in a state of oxygen deprivation, the beginning flashes of soreness, and quite possibly the beginning stages of death, 'A' talked with me while she cleaned up the group exercise area. At fairly regular intervals, she would ask me how I was doing with a 'no one is going to die on my watch' look on her face. As she continued cleaning and conversing with me, 'A' said something that I wasn't expecting to hear; even more unexpected (as you will read momentarily) than what 'A' said was my uncharacteristic response to what she said:

"I feel so bad right now...I hope this hasn't turned you off to coming to the gym."

Those who know me well know precisely how I usually react to a situation such as this--it usually involves me saying a simple, two word phrase: 'F**k this!'. If I reacted with my normal 'F**k this!' attitude to my epic fail on the fitness assessment, I would avoid the Functional Training regimen, focus on more traditional workouts, and then ever so slowly vanish from the gym. However, my life-event reaction chip, loaded with it's 'F**k this!' algorithm, was apparently severely damaged during the course of my 'exercise', as can be discerned from my response to 'A's statement (I am paraphrasing because my brain was still in shock as it attempted to process what I had just put myself through, willingly, and it was sputtered out between deep gasping breaths):

"There's no reason for you to feel bad at all because this showed me exactly why I should be here in the gym. If anything, me failing this bad has inspired me to not give up, which is my usual response." 

From the look on 'A's face, that wasn't the reaction that she was expecting to get, and in fact, I think she may have been prepared to give me a pep talk so that I wouldn't give up. Instead, 'A' simply stated that I had an awesome attitude about the whole thing and that she wished others had the same outlook. After being on the floor for about 15-20 minutes, or perhaps hours (my ability to judge the passage of time was also broken), I was finally able to get up and stagger myself over to the other side of the gym to her desk so that we could talk further about the experience I had.

Look everyone, there goes my dignity.

In the course of our conversation, it became clear that I had made a rather bad, but innocent decision that helped lead to my epic fitness failure. 'A' asked me what I had eaten prior to coming to the gym, to which I told her nothing. 'A' looked rather shocked and from there, asked me how many times I normally eat in a day, to which I replied 3, when I remember to do so--on D-Day, I only had eaten twice--breakfast and lunch--nothing else. Unbeknownst to me, a gym neophyte, one should eat a snack of some sort 20-30 minutes prior to working out in order to ensure that one had enough energy to work out. In my mind, I thought I was doing the gym a service by not eating something so that the workout didn't make me throw up. Unfortunately, instead of being known as the guy who threw up because of moderate exercise, I'm the guy that nearly passed out from moderate exercise because I was a moron. The only saving grace to this unfortunate reaction to physical activity is that I at least looked good going down like I was the Titanic (and by the way my heart was beating, my heart was going onnnnnnnnnn aaaaaannnnnd onnnnnnnnnn -- sorry for the Celine Dion reference to one of the most overplayed songs in the history of music).

I wouldn't mind a solid flat stomach, no need for a
six-pack, just like my French husband Matthieu Charneau

'A' and I spent a good hour discussing my epic failure and what my overall goal was. I was candid with 'A' that my goal isn't: I want to be covered in thick layers of muscle which ripple every time I walk and sport a 12 pack which could double as a washboard to help keep my clothing spotless during a zombie apocalypse, as required by gay by-laws (an apocalypse is no excuse for looking bad). My goal is just simply to lose some excess weight and tone up, slowly, over time (six months to a full year to get where I want to be in order to not burn out based on unrealistic expectations)--anything beyond those goals are extras that I would certainly not turn down, but aren't necessary for me to feel like a success. Honestly, I want to be able to still fit in all my current clothing with just a little more definition. 'A' said that my goals for myself were absolutely doable and within reason and that my approach was excellent. 'A' again apologized for nearly breaking me, but I told her in non-breathless speech that all the epic fail did is show me how much I really needed to be in the gym. At that point, 'A' told me that she loved my attitude, especially since I was using my epic failure as motivation to stick with the program rather than give up before I was in it long enough to see results. Based on this conversation, 'A' asked me if I would be willing to give a testimonial once I had achieved my fitness goals, as it could potentially persuade people similar to me to not be intimidated by the gym and fitness in general. I told her that I would be more than happy to do so, because if someone as sedentary and uncoordinated as me could find 3 hours a week to dedicate to this, and succeed, anyone could.

Love her! She and Doctor McCoy, my spirit guides.

As I was writing this post, I ran across the following quote from Ellen DeGeneres, and I thought it appropriate to my situation:

“It’s failure that gives you the proper perspective on success.”

Believe me, I will certainly relish performing better in my first Functional Training class than I did in this initial assessment. It won't matter if I can't complete all the circuits, that's really not the point. The point is always doing a little better than the last time. With the bar set as low as I have set it with my performance (I would actually have to dig a hole in the floor to accurately place the bar to represent my performance), doing better, even on a small level, will feel like a major victory. Though very odd for me to say, I look forward to seeing the transformation that I will undergo over time, and this blog will serve as a rather hilarious reminder of where I started when looking back from where I want to be.

D-Day The Gym Gets a Princess (Part 3 Assessment 3)

D-Day 7 January 2015

The Dreaded Assessment: Let's Get Physical

Assessment Exercise 3: Goblet Squat

When I managed to ambulate myself over to where 'A' was, she looked at me and asked me if I was ok. Like a complete idiot, I decided to say that I was fine and that I was finally catching my breath, ready for the next exercise. 'A' then showed me the goblet squat, which is holding a kettlebell at your chest and squatting down almost as far as one can, then stand up, squat again, and so on. Of course, she did so in a beautifully graceful set of moves. When it was my turn, 'A' decided that I should use a lighter kettlebell than I had used for the Russian kettlebell swing. My face felt like it had settled into a non-committal, whatever you think is best look, while on the inside, my unicorn patronus was screaming 'thank god!'. As with the Russian kettlebell swing, I performed these squats a little too quickly and was really beginning to figure out that my thighs actually had muscles with nerve endings, most of which were now beginning to feel as though they were on fire. I am not sure if this particular exercise was the inspiration for J.K. Rowling to title the fourth book in the Harry Potter series: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, but if it wasn't the inspiration, it certainly could have been. Additionally, 'A' noticed that I was breaking form more in this set than during the Russian swings, so she was aware that something was afoot.

To give the complete picture, sprinkled between the three major assessment exercises that I performed, there were a few exercises that filled in the gaps: doing pushups (thankfully with my knees on the floor, beginner style, and keeping one foot on a plyometric box, stepping up, then taking my opposite foot off and down, then back up again, all while holding a kettlebell). I didn't include these exercises because they were more minor in nature, and didn't yield themselves to the hilarity of the big three. All told, I did 5 exercises over the course of my assessment before the Goblet Squat killed me. Honestly, this was the most exercise I had gotten in, well, years.

If only I had had a gurney, oxygen tank, and morphine drip...

My assessment of my performance: For this particular exercise, I decided to scale back the grandiosity of my achievement when compared to the previous two exercises. In this case, I had the theme from 'Chariots of Fire' going through my head, though, based on how I was feeling, it should have been the theme from 'Brian's Song' playing instead. Personally, I was just happy that I got through all of the reps.

Reality: My form was good to start but worsened with each time I stood and then squatted again. When I completed the last stand (literally it would be the last stand related to exercise that night), I had to take a moment to get some water, sit down, and tell myself that I wasn't going to be the guy that throws up everywhere. This time I was having a difficult time with catching my breath, but I still managed to sashay, under my own power after a good 5-10 minute break, to where 'A' was setting up for the next exercise. Upon my arrival, I began to list to starboard and had to grab onto a beam to steady myself. It was at this point that 'A' knew I was epically burned toast. Rather than move on to another exercise, she told me to lay down on the floor under the ceiling fan which was circulating blessedly cool air. My unicorn patronus was screaming 'Man down, man down', while my brain actually found the whole thing humorous and imprinted the hashtag #EpicFail in my line of sight.

Final Result: This Princess had reached her limit, not having done much at all, in the cosmic scheme of fitness. It was a rather humbling, and hilariously humiliating, display while in public. As I lay in my puddle of unicorn tears, slowly regaining the ability to breathe like a normal person, 'A' began to clean up the general group exercise area, keeping an eye on the delicate flower on the floor.

D-Day The Gym Gets a Princess (Part 3 Assessment 2)

D-Day 7 January 2015

The Dreaded Assessment: Let's Get Physical

Assessment Exercise 2: Russian Kettlebell Swing

After my performance issue with basic squatting, 'A' took me to the middle of the group exercise area to demonstrate the next squatting routine. Before demonstrating, 'A' told me that I would be incorporating a kettlebell in this exercise. After a moment I said, 'What's a kettlebell?', to which she pointed to several rows of what looked like flat-bottomed balls with handles, each with differing weight. Mentally I began to panic, as I am certainly not the most coordinated human on the planet, so now in addition to squatting, I was going to be using a weight that looked neither like a kettle nor a bell. Using gay statistical analysis, I surmised that there was a good chance of me screwing this up and/or hurting myself in the process of becoming acquainted with a kettlebell. 'A' selected a kettlebell and showed me the motion that I would be using for this particular exercise, which was to sort of squat with the kettlebell between my legs, then swing the kettlebell up to chest height as I stood up, then do the procedure all over again in a fluid motion. I prayed that I wouldn't somehow slam the kettlebell into my testicles as I went through the motion of the exercise, which I calculated to be a strong possibility at some point. After a couple of reps, I decided that this exercise was definitely not From Russia with Love.

My assessment of my performance: This time, in my mind, I scaled back my prowess just a bit from being a victorious Roman general to something that is probably a bit more realistic. As I was squatting, standing and swinging, then repeating, rep after rep (look at my use of fitness speak there!), with speed, uncharacteristic agility, and good form, I knew what it must have felt like for that famous quarterback Babe Ruth when he stood at the free-throw line, raised his football bat to the sky, then pitched a 400 yard touchdown to win the game. I was feeling the burn--the burn of awesomeness.

Reality:
As I was performing this particular movement, I began to exude unicorn tears in greater quantities, especially since it took me several attempts to actually get the movement correct (again, I'm not exactly coordinated). There was no doubt that I was beginning to feel the burn on this one, and I was becoming winded. 'A' was watching me and corrected my form on occasion, but had a look on her face that I couldn't quite discern, especially when she had to remind me that I needed to actually breathe through the motion, something I was apparently forgetting to do. 'A' was surprised at how quickly I managed to get through the exercise and she reminded me that the point of exercise wasn't to see how quickly I could complete a particular routine. Additionally, she discerned that I am wound pretty tight, with an energy that apparently wants to get out out, hence the speed with which I completed my reps. My guess is that energy is all the potential energy that I magically had stored in areas not currently overrun by fat cells, just waiting to be released when I went from being sedentary to at least mildly active. I noticed that my heart was beginning to really take off, and I swear I could hear the blood screaming through my veins, or perhaps it was the screaming of my unicorn patronus wondering just what the f**k I was doing to myself, and on purpose no less.

Final result: I did all of the reps, and then, after a brief discussion about having good form but moving too rapidly, we took a short break so I could take a drink of water (which is something that I forgot to bring with me, so out of mercy, 'A' provided me with a bottled water--thank God!). I was definitely out of breath, and as a result, I was inhaling, ingloriously, desperately needed oxygen so as to prevent me from blacking out--had I been on a phone call with someone, they would have thought I was a pervert. While literally attempting to suck all of the oxygen out of the room, I began to notice that my stomach was in knots, but I wasn't sure if that was because I was hungry or because I wanted to throw up due to all the physical exertion. I put it out of my mind and came back over to where 'A' was waiting to show me another exercise. Little did I know that I was on the verge of learning a very important lesson regarding workouts. All in all, I got through the reps with good without hitting myself repeatedly in the testicles and managed good form.

D-Day The Gym Gets a Princess (Part 3 Assessment 1)

D-Day 7 January 2015

The Dreaded Assessment: Let's Get Physical

After enduring the terror of seeing my body weight and body fat percentage in numeric form, I didn't have much time for emotional recovery. 'A' jotted my information down for posterity to add to my file to check progress over the course of time and then said the words that horrified me even more than my weight: 'Ok, let's head over to the other side of the gym so that I can work you out'. As we walked to the other side of the gym, I managed to keep my panic at bay even though I was having a PTSD flashback to high school gym classes where my athletic prowess was less than what one would call 'stellar'. While trying to keep myself together mentally, I noticed the positions of people in the gym to determine if they were going to be able to see the spectacle of me working out, which of course, the vast majority in the gym could, much to my chagrin. Because I hate to look like an a**hole in public, it felt as though I had now descended into the deepest, darkest pit of gym hell--the only thing missing was a math teacher asking me questions about quadratic equations while strains of country music played in the background (by the way, I can't stand math or country music).

Upon arrival to the group workout session area, I was horrified further by the fact that there were windows on two sides of the area (the gym is in a strip shopping center), giving anyone walking by some of the best seats in the house (other than being inside) to watch the hilarity of me discovering that I do, in fact, have muscles that I didn't know existed. Thankfully, mother nature helped me out with this, as it was ridiculously cold outside, and no one would want to stand around for long. After shooing a couple of people relaxing after a workout from the area. With that, my physical assessment had begun.

Assessment Exercise 1: Basic Squats

'A' demonstrated the movement for me in what can only be called a swan-level of grace as she raised her hands, performed the squat, and rose once again as soon as her posterior hit the plyometric box. I breathed a sigh of relief, as this was going to be relatively easy for me to do, as I have ample experience sitting down and standing back up again (just not standing up the exact moment I'm in a seated position). With that, I stepped in front of the box (it's the tallest one they have thank God), and I began my squats.

Veni, Vidi, Vici Squats

My assessment of my performance: In my mind, I was like a triumphant Roman general returning from another stunning victory in Britannia, with the crowds screaming 'Nailed It!' while flower petals were raining down on me and laurels were thrown at my feet.

Reality: I had great form on the downward motion, but forgot that exercise is not for the purposes of relaxation, and wound up sitting for a moment on the top of the box before I stood up again. At this point, I am sure that 'A' realized that this guy was going to need a lot of help. After the briefest of moments, 'A' told me I had good form, but that I wasn't supposed to actually sit, rather, I needed to rise up just as soon as my butt hit the box which she again demonstrated for me.

Final Result: After being shown the movement again, I performed 9 more squats, some more rickety than others, but I got through it with 'A's guidance and managed to maintain good form. It was also at this point that I began to notice that there were parts of my body attempting to figure out just what the hell I was doing.

D-Day: The Gym Gets a Princess (Part 2)

7 January 2015

The Dreaded Assessment: Initial Baseline Body Statistics

As 'A' and myself were winding down our conversation covering the basics of my gym membership and what the gym had to offer (causing my heart-rate to rise because I could begin to feel the cold, icy grip of the assessment wrapping its cold, unforgiving fingers around my very soul), she pulled out a basic questionnaire. At first, 'A' didn't do anything with it, and instead asked me to tell her in more detail, instead of rambling generalities, what sparked my decision to finally take the plunge in terms of joining a gym (see my reasons in my second blog post The Decision Cemented). Once I had gone through all of my reasons, all of which 'A' said were good reasons to join, I was suddenly asked the following dreaded question:

How much do you weigh and what is your goal weight?

A machine of mockery and torment

I don't know about you, but there are two types of people that you should never ask about weight: women and gay men. The last time I was weighed was several months ago at my last doctor's appointment which almost caused an incident--what I mean by incident was the incredulous look of horror on my face when the nurse said my weight aloud, the desire to hit her for even uttering such a number, and a Hollywood-grade emotional meltdown which would involve dramatic fainting, tears, and calling out for my mommy while in a fetal position. In my defense, my weight gain was the direct result of eating as a coping mechanism as I dealt with the untimely passing of my father, and ever increasing work stress.

Honestly, I couldn't tell you what the look on my face happened to be as the question ricocheted through my mind, but I am sure it may have momentarily appeared as if I had lost all color (which is quite a feat because I'm really pale--thanks genetics) and had a stroke on both sides of my brain. It was the well-known epic battle whereby one decides whether to desperately round numbers down by at least 10 or more pounds or tell the truth. I answered the question truthfully with a slightly pained edge to my voice: 1xx pounds (just in case you suck at math like I do, x is the placeholder for a number in an equation, and this is as much as I am going to reveal for right now). Thinking that the painful question time was over, I got hit with this one:

Do you know your percentage of body fat?

Fitness failure detector (not my numbers)

What little color was inching its way back to my face immediately drained again. My response was 'Ummm, no' to which 'A' said that was no problem as that number was easily checked. Just before I was about to black out from losing all blood flow to my head, 'A' typed something into a device resembling an X-Box game controller and once done, handed it to me and told me to hold it out straight in front of me with both hands and legs slightly spread. After a few moments, the device beeped and I looked at the number for a moment and didn't see three numbers, I saw three letters: W T F. When my brain was able to process visual information again, I noticed that 'A' was looking at a chart and said that my number was in the green, which meant I was still good, but it was a number that would definitely improve over time. As she was talking about my body fat percentage, all I could think was, 'well, at xx.x%, I'd taste really good with fava beans and a nice chianti'. To add insult to injury, 'A' said that because I wasn't entirely sure about my weight that we were going to go to the medical-grade scale to weigh me, which was in the back of the gym near the locker room. Feeling as though I was doing the walk of shame, I went and got weighed and had, unfortunately, been pretty close to my actual weight. Thankfully, 'A' let me mentally take off about two pounds to take into account my stylish gym outfit--thank god for mercy. With all the information she needed, 'A' told me to follow her to the other side of the gym, the part of the gym where group exercise groups met. It was at that moment that the real fun, and by real fun, I mean hellscape of personal horror, really began. Cue PTSD memories of high school gym class and you get a basic sense of my mental state at the moment we reached our destination.

This speaks for itself...enough said

D-Day: The Gym Gets a Princess (Part 1)

7 January 2015

Due to the personally epic nature of my very first night in a gym, my post will be broken into multiple segments, giving you the ability to savor the hilarious humiliation that actually reinforced the reason I joined a gym in the first place.

The day when the rubber of my shoes' soles would hit the purposefully utilitarian carpet of the gym I joined was now upon me. Honestly, I had absolutely no idea what to expect, and because of that, my mind played out many different scenarios, all of which had me looking like a complete a**hole in front of a large room filled with people (something I would much rather avoid at all costs, as would most people). In order to stop myself from panicking, I decided to focus on something truly important: which of my new athletic outfits was I going to wear. After all, even if I was going to look like a fitness a**hole, I could look fabulous doing so. Most of the day, I mentally mixed and matched outfits until I decided that I would go conservative and color coordinate with my hair--I went with a monochrome color palette of grey.

By the power of grey polyester!

The gay calculus (a gay variant of math, used to calculate exactly what to wear and when--even simple formulas can require hours to calculate) I used to find a proper outfit for this 'event' led me to the conclusion that wearing grey was understated enough that I could go relatively unnoticed by the more seasoned clientele. My ultimate hope was that this first official night would be more along the lines of a formal tour, a discussion about equipment and the various options that would be available to me in terms of exercise programs and regimens, going over gym rules, and answer any questions I might have. As it would turn out, I was only partly correct and was in for an evening of one personally terrifying surprise after another. By the end of my very first evening in what will eventually become a second home, I was smacked in the face, repeatedly, by that rude bastard known as reality.

The Initial Interview

Though partially dreading my first day, I arrived on time and was greeted by the person who signed me up for my gym membership, C (I'm not using names, so I will refer to people by the first letter of their first name). After a brief hello, C introduced me to A, one of the personal trainers on staff. Prior to my first night at the gym, A reached out to me via text message welcoming me to the gym and asking to set up an appointment to introduce me to their Functional Training Program and to do a physical assessment. Slated for the evening, I informed A that if the assessment was physical in nature that:

1. She should just consider me as never having formally exercised before and that I was largely sedentary (apparently moving from one's bed to get the television remote, then back to the bed, then doing near bicep curls to lift the remote to channel surf does not count as physical activity)
2. I had to be careful initially because I have a slight heart murmur and my doctor would kill me if I killed myself by pushing too hard

In the course of our text messaging, and based on my response to her in regard to a physical assessment, A had certain assumptions about what she was going to run into when meeting me--a sedentary 400 pound Jabba the Hut physical nightmare. When C introduced me to A upon my arrival to the gym, she did a double-take as I was nowhere near what she thought I would look like physically. After the usual handshake greeting, we sat down and began to have a conversation about the gym, my experience, etc. For the most part, I was a deer caught in headlights. She patiently explained things and I made witty analogies so that I was able to remember and understand what we discussed. At this point, the only thing missing was a delightful adult beverage, as the conversation was going swimmingly.

Just as I noticed that we were missing adult beverages, the conversation turned in a direction that I was dreading, the part where we had to do the initial assessment. Of course, like an animal that knows that it's about to become prey, I was desperately looking for a conversational exit back to non-assessment territory. Unfortunately, my tactic didn't work (I am sure that she has seen the same tactic used by just about anyone new to the gym-world), and thus began the moments which led to hilarious personal humiliation and validation.

End Part 1

Days 2-5: The Touch, The Feel, of Polyester...

...it's the fabric of my gym life.

Dates: 2-6 January 2015

Before my first day in the gym, slated for 7 January, I diligently rummaged around my closet and dressers to find anything that might actually serve as 'athletic wear'. To my astonishment, I actually had two pairs of athletic pants hiding in the deep recesses of one of my dressers. It took me a moment to remember why I even had athletic pants, as I normally had no need for them. As it turns out, I had flirted with fitness and entered a tumultuous love/hate relationship with a treadmill at home several years ago (the relationship only lasted a few months) which drove the need for me to purchase something sporty. After a very brief stroll down fitness memory lane, I refocused my attention on the issue of my supply of athletic apparel; I realized that I simply didn't have enough appropriate workout clothing to support my soon to be 3-5 days per week of fitness training. For those of you who are straight and don't understand the gay world, I belong to a particular subset of gay men who believe that one should look their best whenever in out public, regardless of the reason one is going out--anything less is personally unacceptable. Translation from gay to straight: I needed to go shopping.

Being the frugal shopper that I am (I refuse to pay full price for anything if I don't have to), I went to TJ Maxx and Marshall's to see what they carried in terms of athletic apparel. Luckily, between the two locations, I was able to purchase several shirts and athletic pants, none of which contain fibers that occur outside of a test tube. I was fortunate that they had athletic pants in my two favorite colors: blue and grey (I just plain love blue, and grey will be a nice match with my hair--you can never match too much). Thankfully, I had purchased athletic shoes some time back as a part of my treadmill affair, and they thankfully coordinate with all of my pairs of athletic pants.

I was concerned that the clothing wouldn't be comfortable, especially since they are made of polyester (I had visions of the 70s running through my head). To my surprise, the pants and shirts are remarkably comfortable, and once on, actually look pretty good, which makes me just the slightest bit excited to be going to the gym. Honestly, if I'm going to humiliate myself publicly, I have to look good when it happens which will at least bring me some comfort as I hang my head in shame (see my reason in paragraph 1 for needing to look good)!

Though I am not being sponsored by either manufacturer, nor would they even consider doing so, I would like to thank Adidas and Reebok for making clothing that I don't look shameful in when worn in full public view--if I wore hats (they mess up my hair), my hat would be off to you!