Super radical
So my personal trainer quit to go be an IT guy, which basically propels me into an EXISTENTIAL CRISIS. Kidding! Wait, no, not kidding.
"Didn't he give you a referral?" you might ask.
Sort of, but not really, because Captain America--as we so call him, because he looks like Chris Evans mid transformation sequence: tall blond with blue eyes who hasn't quite packed on all of the beefcake muscle yet and so is still a little lanky--left a little burned out on the industry. And he knows I wouldn't go to just any other trainer, because what Captain America did for me was very special: he helped me lift very heavy things and never mentioned my weight. He did not assume weight loss was my goal. My first session he asked, "what are you goals?" and I was vaguely like, "being a badass?"
And he said, "Okay." Then he proceeded to get me deadlifting 185 pounds for reps and leg pressing 375 pounds for reps. In about a year. Which is fucking stellar for a hobbyist starting from a base of noodly nerd person. In the time we worked together, he mentioned my weight exactly once: when I'd lost some and he was checking to make sure I was still eating and not slipping into another anorexic phase. Because he understood that eating disorders are tricky and insidious things and he was careful with me, but also just because he held the fundamental belief that women can be motivated to do fitness for reasons that have nothing to do with losing weight.
Which makes him super radical in his field. And I'm not gonna claim he was some paragon of feminism, but he shouldn't have to be, you know? It should not be radical to believe that a woman might want to be strong just to BE STRONG. We assume that men lift weights for this reason all the time. People would come up to me during the sessions--and by people I mean men--and look all shocked at the weight I was doing and ask me things like, "what are you training for?" and "why are you lifting?"
Captain America let me handle this myself at first--he was incredibly respectful of boundaries in general--but eventually he saw that this distressed me, so he'd just look at them in a disquieting way until they left, or sometimes ask very casually, "What are you training for?" I mean, there's a little bit of problematic shaming here, possibly, because the implication was totally that they should be working harder for their own goals. But still!
How can you not love someone who protects you like that? And I don't mean in a gooey sexy gaga bedroom eyes way, because as cute as dude was--no, man. Not even a little. Too wholesome looking for me by half in any case. But as a friend, truly as a friend, as someone who is understanding and supports you? Someone who sees both your potential and your wounds? It's fucking awesome to have someone like that.
But anyway, so, he left. And he wrote down my routine and weights for me, but I don't feel comfortable doing this stuff without a spotter, and all of my friends are basically arty nerd people who don't gym, so there's no one to take with me to help. And plus the motivation has suffered, and when I go to the gym to lift by myself, dudes--but not fellow powerlifters, who are usually super supportive! and also sort of self obsessed and ignoring me to get their own workout on--come over and ask dumb questions. It's just kind of disruptive.
So it's been a month and my practical concerns are how much strength I've already lost (a lot!) but also how much muscle mass I've lost. Naturally, random people are very complimentary. "You're shrinking!" they will say delightedly. "I KNOW," I say, distressed, because my killer biceps and my STUNNING LUSCIOUS MUSCULAR LATIN ASS are, like, evaporating. My ass is my aesthetic concern. My shorts are fitting loosely. I'm not even kidding. I've dropped like five pounds in the last two weeks and it's all come out of my asscheeks.
What was the point here?
1) Captain America: you were a true friend. I miss you. I know we still talk and hang out, but I miss you in the gym, and you did a lot for me. I'm not sure you know that, but I have tried to tell you.
2) I MISS MY ASS FOR ENTIRELY DIFFERENT AND MORE SHALLOW REASONS.
I guess I should go lift slightly less weight alone? IDK, man.
"Didn't he give you a referral?" you might ask.
Sort of, but not really, because Captain America--as we so call him, because he looks like Chris Evans mid transformation sequence: tall blond with blue eyes who hasn't quite packed on all of the beefcake muscle yet and so is still a little lanky--left a little burned out on the industry. And he knows I wouldn't go to just any other trainer, because what Captain America did for me was very special: he helped me lift very heavy things and never mentioned my weight. He did not assume weight loss was my goal. My first session he asked, "what are you goals?" and I was vaguely like, "being a badass?"
And he said, "Okay." Then he proceeded to get me deadlifting 185 pounds for reps and leg pressing 375 pounds for reps. In about a year. Which is fucking stellar for a hobbyist starting from a base of noodly nerd person. In the time we worked together, he mentioned my weight exactly once: when I'd lost some and he was checking to make sure I was still eating and not slipping into another anorexic phase. Because he understood that eating disorders are tricky and insidious things and he was careful with me, but also just because he held the fundamental belief that women can be motivated to do fitness for reasons that have nothing to do with losing weight.
Which makes him super radical in his field. And I'm not gonna claim he was some paragon of feminism, but he shouldn't have to be, you know? It should not be radical to believe that a woman might want to be strong just to BE STRONG. We assume that men lift weights for this reason all the time. People would come up to me during the sessions--and by people I mean men--and look all shocked at the weight I was doing and ask me things like, "what are you training for?" and "why are you lifting?"
Captain America let me handle this myself at first--he was incredibly respectful of boundaries in general--but eventually he saw that this distressed me, so he'd just look at them in a disquieting way until they left, or sometimes ask very casually, "What are you training for?" I mean, there's a little bit of problematic shaming here, possibly, because the implication was totally that they should be working harder for their own goals. But still!
How can you not love someone who protects you like that? And I don't mean in a gooey sexy gaga bedroom eyes way, because as cute as dude was--no, man. Not even a little. Too wholesome looking for me by half in any case. But as a friend, truly as a friend, as someone who is understanding and supports you? Someone who sees both your potential and your wounds? It's fucking awesome to have someone like that.
But anyway, so, he left. And he wrote down my routine and weights for me, but I don't feel comfortable doing this stuff without a spotter, and all of my friends are basically arty nerd people who don't gym, so there's no one to take with me to help. And plus the motivation has suffered, and when I go to the gym to lift by myself, dudes--but not fellow powerlifters, who are usually super supportive! and also sort of self obsessed and ignoring me to get their own workout on--come over and ask dumb questions. It's just kind of disruptive.
So it's been a month and my practical concerns are how much strength I've already lost (a lot!) but also how much muscle mass I've lost. Naturally, random people are very complimentary. "You're shrinking!" they will say delightedly. "I KNOW," I say, distressed, because my killer biceps and my STUNNING LUSCIOUS MUSCULAR LATIN ASS are, like, evaporating. My ass is my aesthetic concern. My shorts are fitting loosely. I'm not even kidding. I've dropped like five pounds in the last two weeks and it's all come out of my asscheeks.
What was the point here?
1) Captain America: you were a true friend. I miss you. I know we still talk and hang out, but I miss you in the gym, and you did a lot for me. I'm not sure you know that, but I have tried to tell you.
2) I MISS MY ASS FOR ENTIRELY DIFFERENT AND MORE SHALLOW REASONS.
I guess I should go lift slightly less weight alone? IDK, man.