I just finished my supervised physical therapy session for the week. A local place with “Sports Medicine” in the name… which always makes me laugh, as the gym’s spark plug is ninety-five and often nods off mid stride.
As for me, parts keep rusting out and falling off, and I keep picking them up and sticking them back on. My trainer? therapist? Gulag overseer? Hands me a photo illustrated instruction sheet for the week’s additive exercises, puts me in front of a new piece of equipment, then rolls his standup desk and laptop PC off to a safe location to observe.
Of course I know he is not observing. While I am straining to find new blood vessels to burst, he is on social media, http://inattentivetrainer.com, exchanging client barbs with other trainers of his ilk. Yes, I did say ilk. Still, if I attempt two sets instead of three, lower my heels from toe lifts too quickly, or miscount reps, he will not only know, but he will back up his assertions with iPhone video or body cam footage. What ever happened to trust?
Working out three times each week, in my way of thinking, would be commendable. So I am not sure why this must be a daily ritual. Worse, I have some misplaced integrity that causes me to see the program through its entirety, even when accomplished at home. I even critique the quality of my efforts and admonish as necessary. If only I weren’t Catholic and living in a state of guilt and fear of hell.
A story of an old Neanderthal man always comes to mind. When excavated, it was noted that his right arm was missing from the rest of his skeleton. No, he did not fall victim to Smilodon, or a cave bear, or wild dog or neighboring tribe. He apparently had a fracture and no HMO. So the break became infected, the wound festered until, one day, his arm just fell off. Surprise, surprise, he did not die. In fact, based on bone healing and the circumference of his skull, he soldiered on for several years after he and his arm parted company.
Two thoughts. That was one tough dude. Must have been married with children. Secondly, his living agony is how I feel when forced to exercise. To my credit, and an example of my personal growth, I removed the ashtray from my treadmill in the mid 1990s, and replaced it with a cup holder for my coffee.
Oh, I definitely relate to this one Joe. They must have a class in PT school on how to watch yet not watch.
It is definitely not like trainers in the movies, Scott. No swallowing raw eggs, no running ahead of a slow moving pace car, no jumping rope. Just a guy who looks to need PT as much as their clients. In the 70s, fitness centers began popping up where the client was strapped into a machine and the machine moved arms and legs without client. Effort. Can’t believe they all closed.