Losing a Buck Twenty Five is a weekly column that will document Cinderella Undercover’s quest to lose 125 lbs. You may also keep track of her progress at http://www.weightitout.com
Just Another Day Part II: Cinderella Undercover Meets Her Trainer
by: Cinderella Undercover
So it was only a few hours away from my twenty ninth birthday, and even fewer hours away from meeting the person who would hopefully save me from myself—my personal trainer.
I was excited, nervous, and intimidated about this whole idea, so naturally, I ate everything in sight, and smoked a half of a pack of cigarettes. I anxiously wondered if she would be one of those pretentious fitness types—you know the type—the skinny ones who don’t need to wear any make-up at all and still look fabulous—those types.
I wondered if she was used to working with affluent clientele that wanted to keep their bodies geared up for their next action thriller; or poolside holiday; or party at P-Diddy’s; and would shudder at the thought of training a poor, working stiff like me.
I wondered if she was one of those judgmental fitness-fanatics who would lend credence to stereotypes and preconceived notions of /about fat people—you know the type–the buff “hottie” who looks scathingly at overweight people while glibly ruminating how all of the stigmas fat people have to combat could be eliminated if fat people were to just put the fork down—one of those fitness types—they’re at every gym, fitness facility, yoga retreat, spin class, karate dojo; Pilates center, or kickboxing boot camp. They really are.
Preconceived notions aside, I mostly wondered if this trainer—my new super heroine—could reverse twenty four years of fatness?
Twenty four years of diets—every diet fathomable–nutritionists, medications, supplements, “programs”, and vows to never eat bread again, didn’t work out too well for me on the past, so I was skeptical, and with good reason. You see, the thing that has kept me fat for twenty four years isn’t heredity; my digestion disorder, Candida; my medical maladies; or the failure of fad diets—it was me—plain and simple—just me.
Sure I binged and purged with the best of them—but bulimia ruins your teeth—and my teeth are the best part of my body, aside from my hair– which brings me to anorexia—I couldn’t sustain that—it makes your hair fall out! I crash dieted, tried all the fads, and out of utter exhaustion from constant calorie counting and monitoring, practically gave up eating all together before I finally just gave up on losing weight.
I stopped exercising, and ate everything—the good food; the bad food; and the “will make you morbidly obese” food. And, at 5’3”; 263lbs; at age 28-almost 29, I was exactly that—morbidly obese.
It isn’t as bad as it sounds—it’s much worse. The ante had been upped—the fatness was beyond the “guys won’t like me”, or “I can’t/shouldn’t wear that” stage—it was to the “I can’t fit in the IHOP booth” stage and, sadly, “I could die from this” stage. It was time to get out of this stage and on to a new one–Stage 11 to be exact.
The clock hit 4:30pm and I fled my corporate day job, and booked it out of the valley and headed over to the hill to Burbank to meet up with my friend and workout partner at her place of business outside Stage 11, of an undisclosed television studio. Stuck in traffic on two different freeways, I barely made it in enough time to scarf down some Del Taco before picking up my friend and heading over to Miami Fitness—also in Burbank.
We arrived and our trainer, Audra Yocom, was already there. I extinguished my cigarette, sprayed some perfume to combat the evidence of my smoking, and raced inside.
She looked the part of a trainer—pretty and fit—and had a very personable demeanor. She didn’t make any disparaging faces, though, nor did she shudder at my largesse and the daunting task of reversing it. Instead she showed us around the gym, took our measurements and weights, and talked with us about our routines. Then she asked our goal weights, and how much we wanted to lose. I wanted to lose 125 lbs—125lbs, I cringed at hearing myself say it aloud—“A buck twenty five,” I replied to her question. She didn’t bat an eyelash, but calmly said—“We can do that.” Her simple and matter of fact response took the terror out of saying it aloud. If she didn’t think it was impossible than neither should I, right? I mean she didn’t scream, “ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE POUNDS?!” She didn’t call me a fatass. She didn’t have any of those pretentious albeit well meaning rhetorical responses, and she didn’t give me the courteous but untruthful and always annoying, “Oh, you don’t need to lose that much.”
I had been so worried that I would have to prescribe some set of parameters of what would make it feasible for me to mentally and physically complete a fitness routine, but somehow, she seemed to, intrinsically and or instinctively know what those parameters were—she treaded lightly, honestly, and professionally. A wave of relief washed over me.
We continued on with our meeting, discussing possible nutrition plans, and workout schedules. She laughed at my inane self-deprecating jokes, and seemed earnestly eager to help me lose weight—without embracing a messiah complex. There was no fanfare, no hoopla, and best of all no excuses. It was just a workout plan—a part of what would become my new daily routine. Twenty nine suddenly looked promising, and the gym less daunting…and the buff hotties less intimidating, but the cigarettes still looked tempting…so I indeed had one on my way home to spend the last night of my 28th year.