Calling for Backup

We had a party last night. A huge, tacky, messy, loud, drunken, full-of-cupcakes kind of party. I didn't eat much, but I think I drank more than my share of calories. The fitness planets must have been in alignment, because two amazing things happened: my friend Jesse showed up, and I got an offer that I can't refuse.

Among other things, Jesse is a personal trainer. (Not mine, unfortunately -- I can't afford him.) Sometimes I have a hard time picturing him training people, just because he's so laid back. He's like an in-shape Buddha, with a red goatee. Imagine him standing over someone on a weight machine saying stuff like, "Dude, I can't MAKE you do this. It's all about you, brotha."

Seeing Jesse always makes me want to do something new; he talks about surfing and I think, "Ooooh, I want to do that!" And then I picture myself in a bathing suit, and think, "Meh, not so much." In a roundabout way, it motivates me. It makes me want to tell self-deprecating Fattie to shut the fuck up and DO something about it.

And that amazing offer? My friend Smith* said he wants to help me. He's been reading this here blog, and a few minutes after he arrived, he looked at me and said, "So, I want to help Foodie."

I was slightly dumbstruck. He wants to HELP? Wait, so like, people care about me? People other than my Hubs and my mom? I almost cried. Why have I never thought to ask for help? Oh yeah, because I'm supposed to be Wonder Woman and hide the fact that I'm scared about not fitting into my giant blue star-studded underpants, afraid to admit that I need someone not related to me to light a fire under my (fat) ass.

Smith has to be super fit for his job, and as a result knows all sorts of ways to get in shape and stay there. He also seems to understand that it's hard for me to let go of food. After we talked a while about eating lots of chicken and running in parking structures, I got the impression that he could make me puke, cry, and laugh all in one workout. That's what I want. I need (and want) somebody to kick my ass and push me past my limits until I can push myself. It's like when you're learning to ride a bike -- somebody holds the seat and pushes and your little legs pedal, pedal, pedal, and then suddenly, the hand is gone from the seat and you're gliding down the street.

I'll pedal if you push.

*Not his real name. Not everyone wants to be a blogosphere celebrity.