Dear Mr. Personal Trainer,

I’m coming in to see you today after six months of, mostly, sitting on my hind end. And, by mostly I mean completely. I understand that you want to know my history and goals, so here goes.

I maintained a normal weight until just after my 26th birthday. Then I got married, had a high-stress career, renovated a house, had a preemie baby and blamed every pound I gained on each of those things. I had no time and no energy.

Then I had another baby and he was um…kind of difficult…even if I had had the time and energy, I would have taken it and put it into making him better, stronger, healthier, smarter and more typical. It turns out that ten years and ten surgeries later I realize that I like him just the way he is, which is sickly, tiny and kind of quirky, but that’s a whole different letter.

How I got here is beside the point; it’s where I want to go that matters. Eight months ago my high cholesterol sent me into the waiting arms of a vegan diet. Now I have a relationship with beans that I never thought possible. Also, my cholesterol dropped 160 points in three months. Without meds. Me and beans? We kind of love each other.

I joined your gym in January and started working out with a trainer and spent hours there each week. But, then the trainer got moved to another position and I got whooping cough, then summer came and that’s my SUPER busy season at the job I love and am passionate about. I had a hard time peeling myself away from my computer screen. And, once again, as I have countless times over the last decade, I fell into a vicious cycle of excuses.

I want this bad. I want good health, a long life and I want to be strong again. I wouldn’t mind if you could throw in some quickness and good balance, but if you could just get me to a point where it’s not a nightmare to get dressed each day, that would be great.

I take Zoloft and Ambien (see aforementioned paragraphs mentioning kids) and I know the anti-anxiety meds aren’t conducive to weight loss, but they also help me sit and watch mindless TV like Wheel of Fortune without grinding my teeth and clenching every muscle in my body. If you asked me whether I wanted to go back to feeling like I was always on the verge of a panic attack or be fat, I would chose the fatness. So, we have to work around that.

I like beer. A lot. I like chocolate. A lot. I also like vegetables and feel strong enough about my health to become a vegan and stick to that completely. But, please don’t ask me to give up beer. Or chocolate. Or coffee.

I would love to run a half marathon someday, but only a half because I think a full marathon is crazy. Plus I have asthma, so I don’t even think full marathons are allowed. Just sayin’. Oh, and I’m 41. FORTY-ONE, which is to say that I feel very middle-aged and if I don’t turn this around FOR REAL this time, I won’t ever do it.

I still have a whole life to live and so many places I want to go and a zillion things I want to do, but I won’t do any of them happily unless I can fix myself and I don’t know how to do that. I want you to help me get to a point where I can stop hating myself.

So, there you go.

No pressure.

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You’ve heard the phrases a thousand times: You just never know, do you? Make every day count. Time flies. In the blink of an eye. Life is short. Carpe diem.

Yesterday morning, my stepmother was at a regular check-up at her doctor’s office when she started to feel queasy. The doctor ordered a shot of anti-nausea medication and the next thing she knew, it was today. She woke to find herself in the ICU with a ventilator doing her breathing.

It likely wasn’t an allergic reaction, as she’s had this medicine before with no side effects, but rather a near-lethal combination of medication in her system. Don’t ever doubt drug interactions; they are a very real danger.

In between her passing out in her doctor’s exam room and waking up in Intensive Care, we watched and waited. We didn’t know if it was a heart attack, stroke, embolism…or what. All we knew, was that there were a lot of doctors attending to her, she wasn’t regaining consciousness or breathing on her own, her blood pressure was perilously low, and a minister had asked my dad if he wanted a Catholic priest to be called. We honestly didn’t know if she was going to live or die.

Tonight, she is fine. I was there this afternoon and she was off the vent, alert and talkative. She was lucky.

On my way home from the hospital tonight, I was thinking how quickly this all happened. That’s how it goes, you know? No one knows what the next minute will bring.

The sun was setting and the sky was a deep pink. The same color that makes me think of my step-niece, who must have been looking down from heaven on her grandma yesterday.

I turned on the radio and the station was playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”, which is one of my dad’s favorite songs. The man who, just yesterday, was devastated to see his wife in grave condition.

I thought of my niece’s death, my stepsister, my stepmom, my dad, the fear, the tears, the events of the last day, and how precious and fleeting life is.

Then I started singing.

I sang the song that reminds me so much of my dad. I sang to myself, to the sky and to the passing cars. I didn’t even care who saw me. Because, why should I? I sang because I can, because I have a voice, because I’m breathing, because I’m living.

All of those phrases up there are completely true, but don’t waste your time uttering them. Just sing, people.

Just sing.

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On the heels of my How Not to Make a Dog Vomit post, I thought I’d go with another “how-to.” This pretty much means I’m an expert…in everything.

My husband and I recently splurged for the cost of a personal trainer. First of all, it’s not as expensive to hire a trainer in Ohio as it is in more metropolitan areas and secondly, I figure the money we spend on it will save us in doctor bills later.

Other than the cost, I can’t say anything negative about this experience thus far. Even the pain feels great. I know I’m getting stronger because of it and the self-torture reminds me that maybe I don’t really want that cookie (oh, okay…or those four beers) (who am I kidding? those eight beers). If there’s been one thing that I have been able to lift while overweight and out of shape, it’s a Corona Light bottle to my mouth.

Without further ado, here are my tips on how to find a personal trainer who’s right for you:

1. Ask for recommendations. Or, better yet, when your friend gets a trainer and promptly loses 20 pounds, follow her to the gym and find out who she’s working with. Try not to get arrested for stalking.

2. Get someone who is flexible. I’m not talking about time or their yoga positions, but rather personality. My husband likes to be pushed around and told he’s weak when he’s working out. I prefer more positive reinforcement. Like, “Gee, your face is really red. It looks like a rose.”

3. Choose a trainer who is strong; the kind who can catch you and your flab when your size 11 feet catch the edge of a step that you’re supposed to be jumping onto, but instead you go flailing and almost break your face. Hypothetically.

4. Preferably, get someone who doesn’t know the word, “Plank.”

5. Also, “Plyometrics.”

6. Your trainer is going to see you at your worst, in order to make you look and feel your best. Don’t hire someone with whom you’ll feel embarrassed. There will be a lot of sweating and, quite possibly, blood, tears and vomit. You have to be able to put your shame aside. Did I mention that you get weighed and measured? Yeah, that.

7. Make sure your PT is bigger than you, so that when you want to punch him in the neck for almost killing you, you’ll think twice about it.

8. Before you sign a contract, find out if your trainer minds the use of bad language and insults; the kind that will come flying out of your mouth like you’re Regan from The Exorcist. Also, he needs to understand that it’s a form of apology when you say, “I know I said I hate you, but you MADE me say it!”

9. Get someone who won’t let you cheat by dropping your knee during a plank or doing half-squats when you should be going low. Actually, this means getting someone who won’t walk away or turn his back for a second.

10. And lastly, choose a trainer who you don’t think will punish you for writing blog posts about them.

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Thirteen is said to be an unlucky number, but I tend to think it’s lucky because it’s the number you are today.

I’ve had thirteen years of you, and though it’s gone by in the blink of an eye, it’s been tremendously rewarding. So far, you have been a pretty super kid.

It’s hard for me to comprehend that in five years, you will be eighteen and it’s just as hard to think that five years ago, you were just turning eight. But, right now, while you are smack-dab in the middle of childhood and adulthood, I am enjoying watching you grow and change. I won’t lie, I could do without your grumpy attitude sometimes, but I’m sure you could say the same thing about me.

You are smart, funny and a good friend. I love that you read all the time, that you’re good at math and that you love music. I love that you hate to lose, but when you do, you’re a good sport about it. I love that you’re charitable and responsible and that you have a hearty laugh. I love to watch you play the piano, dance, play softball, and sing.

But mostly, I love that you’re my daughter.

Happy 13th birthday, Goose! If you could stop getting older now, that would be great.

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