Dear Santa:
I have just one wish this Christmas. To quote Radiohead: "I want a perfect body" (the perfect soul part can wait 'til next year). A divine musculature like Adonis: lean and toned but not at all bulky, as if I was just naturally born that way and could eat mountains of McDonald's trash without ever worrying about gaining an ounce.
You're the best, S
Thanks,
Javier Gonzalez
www.facebook.com/javyg80 (I don't want you to get mixed up and give it to some
less-deserving Javier Gonzalez as there are so many of them on FB)
Unfortunately for us, we've outgrown the Santa phase and know that we have to pull ourselves up by our own Gucci bootstraps if we want anything done. So after having my yoga membership lapse a cause de my move downtown, my friend Maile suggested I join the new David Barton gym opening on Astor Place this July. (Insert boring sign up details) And next thing you know I had a session with a personal trainer, coincidentally named, yes, Javier.
So on a rainy Saturday I walked over to Chelsea and strolled into DB, the center of all things gay, to meet Javier and get my body into some kind of shape. Javier is at least 6'3" and I could literally hide behind his built-like-a-brick-wall body without being spotted. Eager to get started, he showed me to the dimly lit locker-cum-hookup rooms and I put away my green nylon and purple ostrich leather Prada "gym" bag. In order to asses my goals and create his plan of attack, Javier asked me a few questions: what do you want to focus on, when was the last time you worked
out, etc. Now, anyone who's seen me live and on stage knows I'm by no means muscular. I've got broad shoulders but thin arms and long, lanky legs, which, thanks to all the NY walking and stair-climbing, are oddly fuller than most of the heavier Gonzalez men. Said gams are, in fact, the envy of my chicken-legged older brother. As for the piece de resistance, the Gonzalez lifesaver curse. The G men seem to store all their fat in a cushy doughnut around their waists. Even I, being a G of thinner build, have not escaped the damn curse. Of course I immediately tell Javier that I just want to get lean and trim off the fat with particular focus on my abs and chest. I DON'T (and I stressed it) want to bulk up or gain mass because I'd have to throw out a nicely curated wardrobe of YSL, McQueen, Prada and Dries beauties. Sorry, NOT happening. The blank stare in his eyes was carrement unenthusiastic. I then proceeded to tell him that I had been
doing yoga and core conditioning with light weights until April. But before that I hadn't seen the inside of a gym in 2 years and even then I had never really done any heavy lifting. He had all the info he needed and we were ready to get started.
For this session he decided we would work on my upper body. As we walked downstairs to the free weights, I noticed that the gym was as dim as a seedy bar with music straight out of a circuit party. I quickly spotted bartenders from most of the big fageton bars pumping major iron. We stood in front of the racks and his eyes raced from the lighter weights to the monstrous dumbbells. I hoped for the best (a 15 lb weight) but feared he would pull a gargantuan beast. So I told him to take it easy and he agreed to the 15 lbs. One set of overhead presses on each arm was easy enough. Then came the pull ups (Disclaimer: I have never in 28 years done a single serious pull up). I was able to do 4 decent ones before my arms nearly gave out on me. Back to presses and he goes for a 35 lb dumbbell. I looked at him in resignation and disbelief "WTH do you expect me to do with this?! You're crazy!" So he swapped it for a 20 which I struggled with as my biceps tensed in terror. The next set of pull ups was totally assisted as he lifted me up and held me on the way down. After every set, as my breathing grew heavier, he checked in to make sure I was OK. I kept up well enough but my frail arms already ached and there were still rows and bench presses to be done. I drew the line at push-ups where I collapsed on the rubber-padded floor like a wounded bird.
Then it was onto abs, where I fared a little better as my arms weren't required and the core/yoga classes from April had left me a bit more well-equipped to handle this portion of the program. The balance ball was a disaster and I felt like a very awkward Drew Barrymore in "Never Been Kissed" as I struggled to stay on the ball without rolling all over the damn place. By the time I got the hang of it, our time was up. He tried to pin me down for a training schedule but all I could think of was how much I wanted to run out of there crying in agony. So I made up some excuse about my work hours and told him I'd be in touch (yeah right, not if my fatigued and burnt out upper body muscles had anything to say about it).
Luckily my legs were untouched by the workout so I was able to gracefully walk back up to the locker rooms to shower and change. It must have taken me a good and painful 30 minutes to shower due to the very limited range of movement my muscles could achieve. I washed whatever body parts I could reach, rinsed and carefully got dressed. I made my way ingloriously to the door, trying to keep my Prada "gym" bag on my arduously exercised shoulder. As I tried to stretch my hand to open the door I winced and nearly yelped like a dog that's been stepped on: I could barely extend my arm past 45 degrees. I found the nearest bodega and begged the cashier for Advil and downed 4 in one gulp with the help of orange Gatorade. As I walked aimlessly in pain I tried to massage the soreness out of my crying muscles and wondered what hellish torture moving around the following day might bring. Fortunately, I had the bright idea of watching Woody Allen's latest flick "Whatever Works". As they say laughter is the best medicine — thank you Woody for taking my mind off the pain even if just for an hour and a half. As I write this today,3 days later, I can almost fully extend my arms even though they are swollen like a fat lady's cankles. Needless to say I'm going to avoid Javier and his workout like the plague. Not for me, thank you very much.