There's no "pretty" at the gym

I feel terribly late writing about Monday night. Am I late? I'm late.

Have you ever been so tired that it takes days, literally days, to catch up? I blame Monday. When I asked my trainer for an arms night on Monday, due to my twisted knee, I got an arms night.

Oh, yes. So very.

When I lift weights on my own, I tend to go light. I don't have a spotter, I'm not well-practiced in the form necessary, and I really don't want to hurt myself. So the weights I choose are of the sort where I can do three sets of 10-15 reps, and it starts to get challenging toward the end of the first set. By the end of my last set, I should be pretty well spent, feeling like I can't do another rep.

So on Monday night, when I settled back into the incline chest press machine for my first lift of the night, I thought, "I've got this."

And then, I grimaced. And winced.

I think it was the first time I've felt a little bit of terror at the beginning of a workout. I'm sure it won't be the last.

Whether it was optimism at my progress or sadism at my weakness, J was loading the weights heavy on Monday. Not "Holy cheesecake, I can't lift that thing" heavy, more of an "Oh, this doesn't look bad, let me grab that... what-are-you-thinking-how-can-I-do-twelve-reps??" heavy. It was an insidious sort of heavy. Sneaky.

After some bicep curls that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, before the tricep extensions that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, there were the upright rows.

I don't want to keep you in suspense: I needed assistance. I nodded at J's demonstration, and despite my feeble start to the night, I grabbed that 40-lb barbell with confidence.

To my credit, I completed several reps myself. It was hard, and I was digging deep to find the drive to finish. But catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I made a critical mistake.

I judged myself. The grimace, the clenched teeth, the shaking muscles. The jiggling everything. I lowered the bar with a sigh and took a deep breath.

"There's no 'pretty' at the gym, is there." There was no question in my voice.

And J laughed. "No. If there is, you're not doing it right. Some ladies come in here looking like they're trying to find a husband. You wonder, what's the point?"

Attitude: adjusted.

I go to the gym for a reason. I have goals. I have pounds to lose and muscle to build. These are not easy tasks and the magazines that show people lifting weights while smiling are liars. It's hard and it's ugly, and if you want the results, you need to put in the work. A trainer is helpful, a motivating factor who can give you an education on the machines and muscle groups, but in the end, a trainer doesn't make you lose weight. You do.

(Y'know, I didn't realize it until just now, but after that set, J stepped between me and the mirror. Wonder if it was intentional. In any event, I'm thinking I hit the trainer jackpot.)