I was in my Saturday morning workout class, a class of about 10 people who are trying to get fit. A woman on the mat next to me, sweat beading down her forehead while struggling to maintain a plank position, asked me, “So does [insert my husband’s name here] make you work out a lot?”
No, this isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this question. Other variations include: “Do you and [insert my husband’s name here] eat healthy all the time?”, “[Insert husband’s name here] must force you to go to the gym at least 5 times a week, doesn’t he?”, and “Does [insert my husband’s name here] yell at you if you eat a Big Mac?”
Just as I started feeling that shaky “there’s no way I can hold this position any longer” feeling, I saw a pair of feet walk up to my mat. Our group fitness trainer half jokingly, but all annoyingly told us to stop talking and keep our abs and glutes tight.
I gave him a dirty look. The kind I do whenever he tells me to stop being a wuss and do another push-up, lat pulldown, or split squat. The kind I do whenever he tells me to quit nagging about the dirty dishes he left in the sink or the trash I asked him to take out three days ago.
Yes, my husband is my trainer. I’m married to a personal trainer and fitness entrepreneur.
So this is my blog. For those of you who either love or hate seeing your trainer for that hour a week or however often you see him or her, I’m here to tell you I feel you. I have to live with mine.