March 19, 2012
“Hi. You were really grouchy on Saturday,” I said point blank to my trainer, Daniel. “Was I?” he asked looking up from the check-in desk. “Yes. I said, ‘You look so serious,’ and you growled, ‘Because I’m tired!’” He laughed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m four weeks out from competition and my whole diet got switched so I’m really irritable.” “No kidding.”
I punched in my code and we started walking over to the free weights. Today was back/bicep day. Abs too, but I do abs on my own, usually after cardio. He handed me 7.5 lb dumb bells and I started lifting while mentally ticking off my checklist: stomach in, gluts in, lead with my elbows.
“Keep your head up.” Damn! I always forget that! He continued, ” My trainer is female and she said these last four weeks of training I’m going to feel what you women feel every month. I’m real moody.”
“Hadn’t noticed…” 9, 10, holy crap these weights are getting heavy, 11, 12. He takes the weights from me and I drink my BCAA water.
“And everything is getting on my nerves! There was this guy in the supermarket who took up the whole aisle with his cart and I was ready to go off on him. I’m taking off the week before the competition because I know I’ll really be in a bad mood then. I’ll be eating nothing but chicken boiled in distilled water.” “Yummy,” I said sarcastically.
He hands me the weights again. “Stomach in. Shoulders back and down.” “ Well, please make sure you don’t train me the final days before your competition because you’re too cantankerous to deal with.” “Fair enough. 10. Just two more. Head up. 11. 12. Good job. How was your weekend? Did you stick to your meal plan?”
“I had an awesome weekend. Our friends Patrick and Jane came out from California and we went to the South By Southwest free concert and I didn’t drink any alcohol at all at Bikini’s Bar, even though it was St. Patrick’s Day and we were hanging out with an Irish Marine. And I only ate a salad. Pretty good, huh?”
His jaw dropped, eyes opened wide, and he literally stepped back. “Why would you go out to SXSW!?! Why would you go to a bar on St. Patrick’s Day!?! Why would you even put yourself in that situation!?!” His voice got a little loud, but I’m pretty sure that had more to do with his own dieting woes than mine.
“My life isn’t going to stop because I’m in a fitness competition. I wanted to have a good time with my friends. Come on, Daniel, no beer…on St. Patrick’s Day! And salad instead of junk food!”
“Just a salad isn’t enough calories, plus you didn’t eat protein or carbs. You need to eat what’s on the diet.”
“Oh, come on!” I rolled my eyes at him.
“Don’t get all defensive,” he said raising his hands up, as if to block my glare like a Jedi Knight blocks an oncoming light saber.
“I’m not getting defensive,” I muttered defensively.
“Was there chicken on the salad?”
“Yes. See? I ate protein.”
“You don’t know how they cooked the chicken,” he answered smugly.
“SERIOUSLY?!! SERIOUSLY, DANIEL?!” Now strangers were looking at us.
“They could have used a ton of butter,” he said calmly with an air of superiority. “ You’re 14 weeks out and you need to stick to the meal plan or you’ll never be ready for the competition.”
Well, if he reacts like that to salad and chicken, I’m really not going to tell him about the five Sun Chips and hummus I ate at the concert.
We moved to lat pull downs and I decided I wasn’t going to talk to him in his current state of pissiness. You don’t know how they cooked the chicken. Really? Really? I’m not even going to talk to you anymore, so there.
He seemed to sense my agitation and then shocked the hell out of me. “All right,” he said calmly, “You’re 14 weeks out; I’m going to give you a Cheaters Weekend.”
I perked up. “Ooh, what’s that?”
“Stick to your diet for the rest of this week, all the way until Friday. Then Saturday and Sunday you can eat whatever the fuck you want.”
“Anything?” I asked with wide-eyed glee.
“Anything.” “Chocolate?” This couldn’t possibly be true! “Anything.” “Fried chicken?” I challenged. “Anything.” “Pizza?” I asked in dismay. “Anything.” “Oh my God, really? You made my week!”
My exuberance level must have frightened him because he put in a disclaimer. “OK, you can’t have McDonald’s or alcohol. But everything else is fair game.” He then proceeded to lecture me about the evils of alcohol with respect to bodybuilding as I moved to strength rows, but then realized my eyes had glazed over like the doughnut I was thinking about. “Everything ok, Lisa?”
“Honestly, I’m not listening to you. I’m thinking about the chocolate Easter bunny I’m going to buy at HEB after we’re done here.”
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