She walks tentatively into my tiny office, and takes a seat on the swivel chair. Clad in black tights, an oversized black t-shirt, and just-bought-yesterday neon running shoes, she looks nervous.
I sit across from her, pen hovering over my official clipboard. I fiddle with the name tag on my nylon Personal Trainer vest. I’m nervous too.
“So, tell me … what are your fitness goals?”
She starts confidently enough. Almost detached. She wants to lose a little weight, tone this, trim that, gain a bit more energy.
Then, at a seemingly insignificant moment in the conversation, there is a noticeable shift. Her voice catches when I ask why she wants to lose weight. Her eyes get a little glassy as she describes the loose skin she sees under her arms, around her thighs, over her once-taut tummy. She looks wistful when describing the body that once was, a perfectly muddled mix of fantasy and reality.
Then she stands and traces the areas she wants “fixed” with her fingers. She jiggles her arm for me to demonstrate its flaws. She pinches her legs, her stomach, her back. She can’t bear to look in the mirror. She laughs in her attempt not to cry.
And I dutifully take my notes. Write down her concerns, her problem areas, her body wish list.
I explain the work it will take to get there.
It’s all really very professional.
But inside, I’m a mess.