Training the Tipsy

I have had a client for the past two months that really never wanted training. He was, as he stated in several text messages, more interested in watching me in what he calls my "sexy shorts" than he is in working out. Throughout this whole ordeal I kept it all about business and I kept pushing him and ignoring him when he said, "ow", "enough", "zat's et" (he has an accent). I was convinced I could show him that he needed me if he ever wanted to work out in really meaningful and productive ways.

The sessions were tortuous for me. It wasn't the fact that I knew he was just going through the motions, it was the fact that I would be certain to get a text from him after the session something like this one that I got after a recent session: "Why u r so fcking cute?? Ajjj.." Granted, the boy says NOTHING of the sort during the workout, he simply complains about pretty much every single thing we do. Essentially he seems annoyed that we spend the hour working out.

All this sets the context for what happened during his last session. The original appointment was scheduled for Saturday afternoon, but he canceled and rescheduled it for Sunday instead. Fine, I had no pressing plans. I get to the gym and wait for him, and wait, and wait. I check my phone - he's running 10 minutes late - but he it has already been 15 minutes. By 4:30 (a half an hour after we were supposed to start) he strolls in wearing his popped collar, pink, perky, polo shirt. He apologized and told me that it was because - he just left brunch.

Brunch in the afternoon almost always means some booze-ination went down. "Brunch, eh? You're sure you're ready to work out already?" I asked. He smiled and said he was. Noticing that he was in a semi-daze, I asked him if he had anything to drink at brunch. "Yeah, mimosa, mimosa, mimosas!" he said, each word getting a little bit louder and more animated. "MimosaS?" I asked.

His brunch came with three free mimosas but since he was friends with the bartender he had two more. That's five in case you lost count. So not only did he take in about 140 calories for each mimosa (700 calories!), he was nearing, if not well beyond categorical drunkedness.

I already had to wait a half an hour for this guy, and he's usually a pain to work with so I had prepared the studio with a nice round of torture. I had begun planning this nonstop circuit of exercises as I waited impatiently for him. Now that he was finally at the gym, I was eager to get his tipsy ass in gear.

For a brief second I thought, maybe I should just send him home - it's probably not safe for him to work out. I guess my professional side kicked in - but then I kicked it right back away - he had already made me wait around for nearly 40 minutes before we got started and that is time for which I do not get paid. If people like Lindsay Lohan can sometimes operate motor vehicles under the influence of coke and sustain only minor injuries, this boy would be fine for a good ass-kicking using dumbells.

The session was a set of circuits that I had arranged in a semi-private studio. The lights were dim and the music was loud, I was having him work out in the best version of a bar I could create. I wanted his last session to be memorable and his being very tipsy inspired me to create an environment that suited the drunk theme - the club atmosphere made it that much more fun.

I was a little nervous when I had him going up and down on the step, he was very wobbly, and had a real tough time keeping up with my tempo. I kept telling him to move faster and he kept getting slower. He got dizzy during crunches and opted instead to just lay down and breathe for a minute. By the time he was doing push-ups on the Bosu ball he was pretty much a mess, but I have to say - he did survive it better than I expected. He only complained one time the entire hour - during a set of lateral shoulder raises with bodybars during which he uttered, "uhhh, uhhh" with every rep.

For the most part he was pretty silent and extremely sweaty. He was still in a daze but I think we successfully got all of the mimosa out of him. I was glad he managed to be quite active without throwing up, which, by the way, was my greatest concern. Once when he paused, put his hand to his mouth and looked down, I thought to myself, crap - who would have to clean that up? Me? No, no way, no how. Him? That'd be wierd. The housekeeping staff? No, they don't clean up things they can't potentially swipe. I decided that if his regurgitated force of nature were to come upon us, I'd send him home and I would close the door and sneak away quietly.

Luckily for everyone he never threw up - we headed up to the front of the gym to sign for the session and shared our last awkward moment of small talk - about how we avoided the stability ball (he was already unstable enough on his own today). I said, "yeah I crossed the balls off," referring to his chart. He laughed and said, "my balls off"? I laughed, closed the book and told him I had to get going. I was walking to the train when I got this text, "But at the end i cant suck ur balls off. . . and I am so sad for that . . ."

I don't get paid enough to do this job.