I Have Puny Girl Arms

I was visiting Fitness World the other night to have my "service appointment". What this entail is an impressive battery of questions with a cheerful personal trainer after which I am measured, weighed and found wanting. And I get to stand barefoot on that funky machine that sends electrical currents through my body to ascertain my body fat ratio, water to weight ratio and other useful stats that have nothing to do with actually motivating me to exercise.

That statement carries more truth than you'd think since I completed my assessment with flying colours. My body water ratio is excellent, not to mention my body fat percentage, waistline and any number of measurements of worthiness. Despite feeling like a slug most days, I'm actually in fine, fighting form, thank you very much. That's it, I'm done! I'm turning in my membership and retiring to my couch at home. My casual fling with getting fit and toned has truly been a slice of heaven.

But I didn't race out of the gym, waving my results in the faces of all those suckers toiling away on the stationary bicycles, shouting, "Pedal away, suckers! I'm in totally good shape and I hardly ever bother to come here! IN YO' FACE!!". No, that would have been inappropriate. And really, my mania was only hiding one very shameful fact: I have girly arms!

Rewind the tape. My trainer was wrapping tape measure on various parts of my body. I held out my right arm to have my impressive guns measured, as if they didn't speak for themselves already. "Now flex," she commanded.

I flexed carefully, mindful not to strain myself and bust open the tape measure with my exposive muscle contractions. My trainer quickly noted the numbers and exclaimed, "Ah, that's the size of my biceps!"

"Oh yeah?," I started, suddenly feeling a little smaller, "well, that's... impressive!"

Yikes. I appraised my trainer again as she ducked down to write notes onto my worksheet. She was probably in her early 40s and not an unattractive lady, although time has definitely done its work on her face. In my very humble opinion, skin cream trumps make-up, every time. Although the trainer's face was no longer tight, her body certainly was. Her rump was pretty typical of other Fitness World trainers: compact, clinically round and definitely something you could lovingly polish to a dazzling shine before placing it on your mantle to show off to all your house guests.

I continued to check her out, but in a more antagonistic way, not unlike how guys size each other up to see if they would come out on top in a hypothetical scrum. Well, I wasn't entirely confident that I could wrestle my trainer down in a play fight, even on my best day. Just knowing her biceps are as large as mine is a total mind fuck. Who am I kidding? She would kick my ass, and I'd probably enjoy it.

So my service appointment wasn't a total wash. I do have my own set of goals to shoot for, in terms of packing on a few more pounds of muscle weight and trimming down those love handles. I was hoping to get a basic workout program created before leaving, but that was to be saved for a second appointment. Wonderful. How come I get the feeling I will be humbled again next week? And by a girl!