I know this is a vocabu-cise day (and I know that’s the reason that the masses are flocking to this blog), but I’m going to change the topic temporarily and rant about my ongoing journey into hotness.

Last week was a disaster for healthy eating/working out.

For the second time I was a total wreck during yoga—somehow I have managed to buy the only completely non-sticky, greased up mat in the history of yoga mats—I am also bad at yoga. This does not come as a surprise to anyone (especially me), though thus far I have been fortunate to position myself next to other terrible yoginis. And of course I am going to yoga with my sister, aka my former-gymnast-and-cheerleader-currently-preparing-for-a-100-mile-bike-race sister, which means that last week she was the only badass in the class who can bust out the backbend, and one of only three in the class who could manage the headstand. (I was clearly not in that group.)

Last week I also managed to find myself in the thriving metropolis of Syracuse. And though I did, in fact, take my running shoes, I of course (a) forgot to bring the socks, and (b) forgot that anytime I get on a plane I give myself a terrible migraine from the expectation that the plane will spontaneously explode into a million pieces. So obviously I did not do any working out, though I did read about 150 pages of Nicola Keegan’s Swimming which is about people working out.

In addition to my poor gym record (twice) and my awesomely bad yoga-ing, I also went out to eat three four times last week and totally went over my calorie count all four of those days.

At this point I’m sure you’re thinking wow, greenapril, you’re totally obsessed with calorie-counting. Don’t you know that feeling healthy is much more important to your happiness?

Here’s my answer:  Of course I’m obsessed with this crap. If you recall, I am trying very hard to make this a “habit” and so I’m allowed to be obsessed with it until it actually becomes a habit.

Also, I have a lot of practice not paying attention to these things, which is how I’ve gained thirty pounds in the first place. I’m not Gretchen Rubin-ing it. (Sorry Gretchen, but seriously, you once posted about wanting to lose THREE pounds. Give me a break.) My goal is not to just “get toned”—I’m out to lose some back flab. And if you don’t know what that’s like, let me tell you, it’s not pleasant, and it does not look good in any kind of dress.

So, in response to desperately trying to hold on to my new working-out self, I hired a personal trainer at my gym.

If you haven’t done this before, let me dispel some of the magic. It’s horribly expensive. They kick your ass, but not always in ways that you want it to be kicked.

Right before our wedding, J and I got a personal trainer. Not only was it really hard, but frankly, he just wasn’t that great. He kept pushing J too hard and making him overheat (as in, on the verge of hyperventilating). Why would you do that to J? Not cool.

Back to the present: Last Thursday, when I went to the gym, I got trainer hit-on. I hate that. They come up to you ask you ridiculous questions like “How’s your training going?” as if everyone in the gym is training seriously for some kind of giant upcoming event that requires a lot of expert advice. But this time, out of gym guilt (and my insurmountable inability to say no), I gave in.

So here we are, my first day of personal training.

I arrived at the gym early, put my stuff in a locker, and was ready to be pummeled for an hour.

But guess what. He doesn’t show up! And while I’m working out (because I’m there anyway), I get trainer hit-on by somebody else who helps me do a few ab exercises, tells me I have “potential”—potential to what exactly? To pay him my money so that he can casually hold up my leg while I repeated lift a medicine ball?—and then tries to get me to switch trainers. Sorry “Kev”, no dice. Not that I feel especially dedicated to mister no-show, but Kev was just a little too aggressive with the sale.

Of course, this now informs my opinion that all trainers are unprofessional training whores who only want my money.

And, as gym-manager Damon informed, since the gym now has my money, they won’t give it back, and I guess I have no choice but to try again.

But, by God, I had better be completely gymtastic by the end of this—I’m talking visible arm muscles and no back flab. (Well, at least, less back flab.)


I just purchased these kind-of-amazing skull and crossbones earrings and this ridiculously-adorable monogram necklace from Lori Citsay on Etsy. Not only was she super nice and customized my necklace, she was super fast with the order, and she’s super affordable! Greenapril approved.