Jillian checks her phone.
“Time,” she announces, and I collapse back onto the mat, panting. “Well, that was ... a start.”
There’s no mistaking the disappointment in her voice.
I use my arms to sit up, feeling a mixture of frustration and defeat.
“I know I’m not exactly a fitness model,” I say, trying to inject a bit of my usual humor into the situation, but it falls flat.
Jillian just raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t about being a model. It’s about effort, Carlie. I need to see you’re committed.” Her tone is firm, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve just been scolded by a schoolteacher.
Jillian glances at her clipboard and then back at me.
“Next up, two minutes of push-ups. Let’s see your form,” she says, a challenging note in her voice.
With a sigh that’s half resignation, half theatrics, I move into position.
My hands are planted firmly on the mat, and I can’t help but think to myself how my relationship with gravity has always been a bit like a bad romance—intense and slightly unbalanced.
And now, here I am, about to prove it with push-ups.
Just as I’m about to drop to my knees, Jillian stops me.
“No, on your feet. Real push-ups,” she instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitate for a moment, then awkwardly shift to support myself on my toes. I have no clue when the last time was I attempted a full push-up, but I can already feel every muscle in my body protesting.
“Begin,” Jillian commands, starting the timer.
I lower myself down, my arms shaking like I’m in an earthquake. I barely make it halfway before I have to push back up, and even that feels like lifting a mountain.
“Your form needs work, but at least you’re trying,” she comments, her voice dripping with what feels like reluctant approval.
I manage a few more shaky push-ups, each one harder than the last. My arms are screaming, my breath is ragged, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back.
Jillian’s voice cuts through my concentration. “Remember, this is about pushing your limits. You’re stronger than you think,” she says, but it sounds more like a challenge than encouragement.
When the timer finally beeps, signaling the end of the eternity that was two minutes, I collapse onto the mat, chest heaving.
I’ve never been so grateful to hear a beep in my life.
Jillian makes a note on her clipboard, her lips pursed.
“We have a lot of work to do,” she says, her tone business-like. “But you’ve got potential. We just need to tap into it.”
I nod, too exhausted to speak. As I lie there, trying to catch my breath, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. This new training regimen with Jillian is going to be nothing like my sessions with Adam.
It’s going to be tougher, more demanding, and, I suspect, a lot more impersonal.
Exhausted from the push-ups, I try to get up too quickly and end up tangling my feet in my own shoelaces. Stumbling forward, I catch myself on the mat with a grace of a hippo ballerina.
Smooth move, Carlie. If there were an Olympic event for clumsiness, I’d be a gold medalist.
Jillian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. I quickly untangle my feet, pretending my face isn’t burning.
Note to self:add ‘learning to walk’ to the workout routine.
Regaining my composure, I stand up, ready for whatever fresh torture Jillian has planned next. She looks over at the pull-up bar, and then back at me with a skeptical expression.