This time last year, I struggled with my New Year’s resolution to go to the gym.

This year, I have made significant progress. I am going to the gym on a semi-regular basis. And by semi-regular, I mean, I go often enough that I actually remember where it’s located between visits.

The bad news, however, is that my workouts are just, how would you say it? Lame. Yes, they’re lame. I am a lazy gym rat. I wouldn’t even call myself a rat. I’m more like a lazy gym sloth. I get bored on the elliptical and then switch to a bike, then I get bored on the bike and switch to a treadmill, then I get bored on the treadmill and switch to something that moves my arms and legs at the same time in different directions and looks like a medieval torture device. I even tried a few classes, but apparently those were made for Amazonian wonder women who can shoot an arrow from their inner thighs while boxing and doing burpees. I can do burpees, too, but with me it involves gas and means something completely different.

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Had I gotten exercise credit for all the times I changed machines, it might have actually been a pretty good workout. Kind of like when I walk downstairs from the bedroom to the kitchen to get a cupcake and then back up again. Come to think of it, maybe that’s not such a great analogy.

But anyway, one day I faced the fact that I’m not really motivated and not getting anywhere with my workouts, so I asked another gym-goer how she got her gym mojo.

“I got a personal trainer,” she said. “He kicks my butt.”

I nodded but I wasn’t sure that actually sounded like a good thing. Now, if she had said, “I got a personal trainer and he gives me molten chocolate lava cake when we finish working out,” I could definitely get on board with that. But I would imagine that kind of defeats the purpose of getting your butt kicked, much like counting walking downstairs on my way to get a cupcake from the kitchen as exercise.

Maybe it’s becoming a little clearer now why this whole diet and exercise thing has been a challenge for me.

Still, the gym was running a special on training, so I decided to give it a month and see if having someone yell at me while I’m on the medieval torture device would help me overcome my lack of gym-thusiasm.

(On a side note, all the trainers at my gym are in their 20s and built like Chris Hemsworth, which may or may not be one of the reasons I decided to sign up. Naturally, they assigned me a female trainer.)

I told my new trainer, Val, I wanted to get fit and lose fat. But before I could start training, she gave me a fitness test to see which areas I needed to strengthen. I gave it everything I had, but ultimately it was determined that I had the flexibility of a cement block and the stamina of a tired bulldog. So, she decided to start me at the cement block/tired bulldog level—basically the same level at which they start people in nursing homes. 

“OK, girlfriend, I set up a circuit for you,” she finally said enthusiastically. “We’re going to start with a set of side planks first. These will help you with your muffin top. Then we’re going to do a set of squats for your banana folds. And finally, triceps pulldowns for your chicken wings.”

I looked at her, turned around and picked up my bag to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to get breakfast,” I said. “I have no idea what you just said, but all this talk about muffins, bananas and chicken wings made me hungry.”

For more Lost in Suburbia, check out Tracy’s website at lostinsuburbia.com.