So I’m at the gym. My trainer wants to add a little challenge to crunches, and asks me if I can scoot up to the wall, put my legs straight up the wall, and do crunches like that. Oh, with a 12 pound medicine ball.
I scoot up, I wrassle my legs up the wall, and I’m holding them up there by pressing my palms against my knees. I let go experimentally, and my knees bend and my heels start sliding down the wall. “You’re going to have to hold my feet up,” I say.
Now I don’t know if my trainer had a bad experience with too many sexual harassment awareness classes, or something worse, but he’s very reluctant to actually touch me, even though I signed the part of the form that said that I understood that personal training might involve some actual touching, so he takes hold of the ends of my pants legs in order to keep my legs up on the wall.
I start doing crunches, holding the 12 pound medicine ball up at arm’s length, and I’m thinking that if my feet start to slide down the wall, his instinctive reaction will probably be to pull up on my pants legs, and my stretchy pants will just be whipped right off. And I’m trying to remember if I’m wearing pink underwear today (as if black underwear would somehow make me less conspicuous).
And I start laughing so hard, imagining this scenario, that I drop the medicine ball on my face.
So be careful out there – exercise can be dangerous!
