Turducken, maybe?

"You are not a turkey loaf."

In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.

While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist.  Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf.  A loaf would be ridiculous.

After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally.  This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back. 

I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.

Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship.  Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable. 

I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends.  While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks.  Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.

He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim. 

A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem.  The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch.  When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on.  When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.

Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.

Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath.  She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie --  it's working.  In one month, I'm down nine pounds.  This is progress.

Five days a week, I'm in the gym.  Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night.  Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf. 

I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life.  My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym.  That's it.  Oh, and texting people.  Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life.  My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia. 

The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it.   Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch.  No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day.  No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.

With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life. 

And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.