Exactly three weeks ago, I left corporate life. Since a long-time goal of mine was to get in shape and lose weight, I decided to hire a personal trainer. I certainly have enough time! As with all things Kellie, I dove in with enthusiasm and complete faith that I can do this. After four sessions, I just feel porky and out of shape. In fact, the more I exercise and look in the mirror while doing so, the more I can’t believe how much work there is to do.

Now just in case you’re thinking that I’m being hard on myself or dramatic, here’s the thing. I’m 53 years old, weigh 192 pounds (down from last year’s all-time high of 205!!!), I’m 5’6″ and have high cholesterol. The top of the weight range for my height and largish build (bones/musculature) is 160. So I have 32 pounds to go. Quite frankly, that feels impossible, but I’ve accomplished other things that felt insurmountable, and I’m only two weeks in, so I am persisting.

My personal trainer Jared, aka Igor the Evil, said that the key to being fit is to engage in “explosive fits of exertion”. If that isn’t enough to freak you out, then actually engaging in the exertion does the trick. Today, he had me hold two thick ropes about 20 feet long  in each hand. Then you make each one undulate. How? By making your arms go up and down close to your sides. Now this looks ridiculously easy when he does it and is ridiculously hard when i do. My muscles scream at me and my breath gets spirited away. I didn’t know I could sweat this much. I beg him to let me stop and he is relentless. I grunt. I stop. I drink water. I try to engage him in conversation, but he’s onto me.

We also did kettle bells, free weights, and some other stuff with a BOSU ball that I don’t even know how to describe. I went home wringing wet, and stood in the shower a loooong time. Then I went out to lunch with my 22-year-old son Max, who weighs 160 pounds and who ate a bison burger with yam frues. Virtuous me had a salad and pined for my 22-year-old, 122-pound self.