In my ongoing effort to not completely come apart
at the seams physically in middle age, I had my second session with my personal
trainer last Monday. This one was much more in-depth. At the initial
consultation, we had a non-argument in which I told him that I can’t do squats,
and he calmly but immediately contradicted me. This session…we did squats.
Which I was extremely anxious about. But he was patient about it. He’s turning
out to be a good trainer for a feeb like me. He’s soft-spoken and thoughtful in
his approach and hyper-attuned to my comfort level. At some point, I must have
winced or something, because he stopped everything and told me, “There will be
no gutting it out in these sessions. You have to tell me right away if there is
any pain at all. In fact, over-tell
me about your pain. We are going to do everything safely and slowly.” This was very
comforting to me. It gives me a small but satisfying sense of security to know
that once a week for an hour, another human being is fully looking out for my
physical well-being; far more than I look out for it myself.
He taught me a series of simple but powerful lower-body exercises, which just about killed me the first time I did
them. I was shocked and saddened to realize how weak my entire lower body is. I
walk and swim on the semi-reg, but both are a fairly haphazard affair, and I realize
that because of my knee injury, I’ve been operating for years with compensating
habits that have caused all sorts of imbalances and weaknesses. But I have a
spark of hope now. I did the exercises faithfully almost every day this week, which
my trainer will think is too much, but I went a little overboard because was I excited
at the first hint that they may be actually working. It might be my
imagination, but I feel like my gluts and quads are getting a bit more sinewy
and my core is feeling a little more…core-ish. I also noticed that once I
started working those muscles, there was definitely some emotional pain stored
in them that is being released by the activation of long-dormant muscle fibers.
A few times upon finishing a set, I felt waves of what seemed like very old
sadness and grief. It’s dissipated more and more with each set, so it’s just a passing thing, but I found the phenomenon interesting. (I’m
not going to tell the trainer about that sort of pain, though. He has enough on
his hands with me.)
Alright, folks. I’m not going to humble brag
here. I’m not going demure and deflect and act like I’m not excited about this.
I’m just going to straight up brag: I
kicked ass at the range today! Now mind you, that was after I blew out not
one, but two binder clips, and had a terrible first hour during which I almost
cried. But…thanks to Mr. Typist’s keen analytical skills, we fixed my grip, and it was
straight-up miraculous the difference it made. Precision is a theme in my life these days,
and it turns out, grip precision matters. A lot. For the first hour, all of my
shots were coming in super-low, despite my aim being on target. Mr. Typist kept
saying I was dropping my hands on the trigger pull, but I couldn’t feel it.
Nothing I was doing was helping, I was rattled by the booms from a .50 caliber shotgun
in the lane next to me, and I was beginning to lose hope. But the minute I was
able to get my left hand higher up on the grip and re-positioned to a more
stable angle, I had it. I actually had it! The photographic evidence is here:
Bad Grip: My shots are low, all over the place, and
scattered to the four corners of the Western Hemisphere.
Good Grip: HA! I killed it, baby! (Except for those low ones. And the ones in the gray. But hey, I'll take it!)
I was super-excited, but also immensely relieved,
because I was beginning to think that something was seriously wrong with my
vision, or that I was incapable of accurate aim due to early-onset Alzheimer's
or something. My arms were tired and achy, but when I saw those groupings, I
couldn’t wait to put more rounds through, and had similar groupings on my last
target sheet. I left the range for the first time with my head held high, feeling elated
and proud and confident. Then I cried when I realized my Dad would be proud of
me. I hope he was watching me from his desk chair in heaven as he smoked cherry
tobacco from his wooden pipe.
The gist is that I now know I can do this. I can achieve competency, and, with a lot of work and practice, maybe even get good. I feel
excited about going back to the range, instead of the usual gnawing anxiety and
tinge of dread. I am definitely miles ahead of my first shot in that beginner’s
class back in October, where I was shaking so badly the instructor had to put
his hands around mine to keep me from blowing my own eye out by accident. So…onward…to
lower body strength, precise shooting, and an able body in middle age.
--Kristen
McHenry
1 comment:
Fabulous!
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