I’ve never had any upper body strength, at all. If I fell on the ski slope, getting up was a major ordeal. And I never was able to do a single pushup. And only faked the girl ones.
That’s why when M. noticed that my deltoids were hard as a rock, I started thinking. Hard pectorals. Hard deltoids. And tricep and biceps with way more strength than I’ve ever had.
Could I do a pushup? I’m still a big girl by any standard, and quite well-endowed, thanks to my Sicilian heritage. There’s more than a little to push up.
I texted Trainer Tom last night: I think I can do a pushup.
So today, we lifted a few weights to warmup and then he said, “Come on, let’s go do some pushups. Men’s.”
At the mat, he modeled the form he wanted me to take, and then said, “Ok, do it. And no matter what happens, we’ll follow it up with some girls’ pushups.”
I dropped to the floor. And did my very first men’s pushups. I got two done, and dropped on the third. Couldn’t. But holy crap! I did men’s pushups!
I celebrated with some girls’ pushups, stood up and took the high five Trainer Tom offered.
“There’s life after 50 after all,” he said.
I’ve never committed to a weight lifting regime to the extent I’m committed to this one: four times a week with a trainer. And no pussy weights, either. HEAVY ones.