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Why I’m Treating My Personal Trainer Like My Significant Other

See me, in the pivotal moment where I, a random girl you've never met before, joined a gym.

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As a feisty, 20 year old, proudly single woman with 3 years of occasionally bitter independency under her belt, when a physically fit, overly charismatic, older man came into my life giving me every motivational boost possible to finally have the insta-perfect body I’ve always dreamed of… (*breathe*) It was hard not to feel a little twinkle in the pit of my stomach. Although that could've be the crunches.

After what felt like a rather flirtatious complimentary session, his striking good looks seemed to have given me some form of out of body experience because somewhere in the next 5 minutes I overheard myself saying that booking a block of 20 sessions with him made the most sense. Having never previously committed to a gym for longer than a month or two, I might add.

I then went on to spend the afternoon perusing his Instagram, imagining how cute the workout videos on our joint account would be. The feed, just a montage of cringy sit-up/kiss-up sessions, him bench-pressing my new and improved bodayy, straddling his crotch while he does... something with weights…

It may sound ridiculous to be smitten with someone after only an hour of knowing them. But that’s just me. When I like something, I want to do it until I hate it (said the actress to the bishop!). I ruin 97% of every romantic encounter I have by not knowing when to sit back and play it cool (although to give myself some credit, 100% of those 97% are also due to my willingness to see the good in everyone, no matter how big a magnifying glass I need. But the dismal reality is, attractive people don't have to be nice anymore. And why should they be when they can satisfy their primate urges at the click of a button. Au revoir pleasantries, Bonjour peasant-ries. I sometimes wish we lived in the times where everyone waited until marriage. People from that generation seem so kind and humble, but I'm sure they had their fair share of woes too. Like the war and whatnot. This tangent has gone on a little longer than anticipated. It might help to read the beginning of the sentence again but ignore the brackets this time. Always ignore the brackets). But why change who I am for a guy, right! I’m going to treat my PT like every person I’ve ever dated (oo gender neutral, I’m so 2017). I’m going to let myself fall for him, and just like Lady Gaga at the Superbowl, in the tightest and skimpiest attire I own. But with one important difference, I will never act upon these feelings. I don't know if he's single, nor do I want to know, because if I find out he's taken, my motivation will go down quicker than an Amsterdam escort. But if I find out he's single I'll be confused about where the line is and I don’t need that drama in my new safe place. So instead, I’m going to revel in my schoolgirl obsessions. I am going to completely commit to this guy and cut off all others because I don’t want someone who will steer me off my path to self-improvement; prevent me from going to the gym because they want a cocktail infused night of telling one another what we think they want to hear, only to gradually let each other down over the course of the next few weeks, months when the real people - the people without the courage of an ethanol-trestle-mask, the people who pretended they were everything they wish they were - rear their ugly heads.

"Woah, got a little deep there for a second!" - Genie, Aladdin the Musical.

Anyway, since meeting my PT, I’ve been finding myself running (metaphorically of course) to the gym every day, just on the off chance he’s working and might catch a glimpse of me and my cutie-little-bootie in yoga pants getting my sweat on. I want to be with him every second of every day. And this ladies and gents, is how I intend to get what the media would call, ‘beach body ready’. With a family holiday fast approaching, I’m more desperate than ever to get body confident. I tried last year and failed miserably. But I didn’t have a BF- I mean PT then. Although the Freudian slip had also been the case. *sigh*

It’s hard not to be exclusively mine and discontented when every TV series, advert, movie and Hello magazine article is all about the success and failures of relationships. Tune into any episode of ‘Made in Chelsea’ or ‘Geordie Shore’ and the majority of the plot line is who slept with whom. We’ve been brainwashed into thinking that co-dependency is the norm. You’re judged by how long you’ve been single and not how long you’ve been happy.

But maybe that’s a rant for another day. For now, I’m off to smother myself with sexual tension at the gym. I’ll be sure to keep you updated with cliché transformation pictures.

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