surlyclown

So, I went to my first workout session at my new gym. They give you the complimentary personal training session and I was hoping it would be more of a basic introduction to the gym, various machines, proper technique etc. And I promised myself I wouldn't overdo the first session, so as not to be wiped out for the rest of the week.

Jeff is my trainer. A small, wiry ex-boxer who tells me:

Jeff: "I've knocked out guys twice my size. It's all about technique and power and I can help you get that, buddy."

Me: "Um...ok."

I know he's shilling for the extra money for personal training sessions that I don't have and don't want anyway. But that doesn't stop him from finding out 'where I'm at.' And so begins an hour of torture that ends in some excrutiating ab work that at one point involves him standing above me, me grabbing his ankles and swinging my legs up into his chest in reverse leg lifts. Apparently boxers do this.

Jeff: "Come on, buddy, don't worry about kicking me in the chest, I've been knocked around and I can take it."

Me: "Um...Ok."

Finally, at the last set of ab stuff--workout over:

Jeff: "How you feelin,' buddy? Doin OK?"

Me: "Yeah...pretty good"
Me inside my brain: "Well, Jeff, I actually feel like I want to do three things right now--throw up on you, pass out, and possibly release my bowels."

What is it about the male simian brain that won't let you express pain--especially to other simian males?

And today...I can hardly lift my arms...I nearly didn't make it up the flight of stairs to my office and my elbow is inflamed because Jeff had me do 'skullcrushers' at an odd, uncomfortable angle. Oh, I will go back, but I will avoid my buddy Jeff.