Personal training…it’s not just about being a boofhead. It’s about the gym floor, where you’re caring for your own kind. The boofhead community. Those who take on the danger of self-sculpting every day. By lifting very heavy things, directly over very fragile things – like faces.
Heroes are everywhere in the land of heavy stuff. But what of the heroes to the ‘heroes’? Those who rescue their boofhead brethren them from themselves? From 400kg of ego? After all, if there’s a big man stuck under a plateload of steel…well, what would Jesus do?
Other than piss himself laughing. (But, being Jesus, he would hold it in til, post-rescue, he could sneak into a changeroom cubicle and shake with laughter). The rest of us, well we do our best to keep your spirit from being crushed – along with your rib cage. This means, though, that it’s a Clark Kent-kinda-job…rushing in quickly so no-one else sees you, preventing mortal harm… then resuming a casual stroll like nothing much happened. Just walking by in a company coloured polo shirt…
So here’s to my companion witnesses of human stupidity: the personal trainers. Sure, there’s a little boofhead in every trainer. Hey, you have to speak the language to understand the natives. – Yes, some trainers are on the wrong side of the equation, remoulding client spines daily (swinging dumbbells is fun, kids!). But many others are out there, blending into walls, lurking behind desks…with one eye on that bar on your back, and their sprint time already calculated.
The golden moments of gym floor are treasures for a lifetime. Collect, and share.