Personal Training

Sometimes St. Frances, and other friends who know me really well, get confused about how certain pop culture traditions, like New Year's resolutions, will break against my personal shibboleths. For instance, St. F knows that I hate to follow other people's rules. So the idea that we're supposed to make New Year's resolutions tends to make me want to do the opposite. She also knows, however, that I love goal-setting and the treadmill of self-improvement. (Hey, if I was born as sweet and lovely as St. F I wouldn't need to work so hard at it.)

So how exactly, would I, Bins, approach New Year's resolutions?

With stealth and overwhelming firepower. How else? I sneak up on the New Year, scribbling notes on post-its and in my various journals, with ideas of things I'm not happy with in my life (or not happy enough with), like my waistline or my business or my sunny disposition. But I don't set out to make "New Year's resolutions" per se. I just get cumulatively more and more dissatisfied with these areas of my life  – and sitting around swallowing glistening plates of carbs sure helps with this part of the process – until boom: New Years. And now I have to do something about it, because, look, I'm such a slob.

Anyway, this is all to say that I started working with a personal trainer on Wednesday. It totally kicked my ass. I walked away from the gym sore, limping and coated in sweat and it was wonderful.