Here is a story that a client shared with me:
My near death experience
There I was, standing--or should I say squatting-- in the YMCA. Safe and secure with my personal trainer beside me and my big blue ball wedged between me and the wall. Exercise has always been foreign to me, a horrible punishment that I have avoided all my life. Until now. In my mid 50s, carrying more weight than when I was 9 months pregnant, I decided enough was enough. I bravely signed up for 12 sessions with a personal trainer, a very sweet young woman who was so tiny, she could fit loosely into my left pant leg. I overcame my immediate aversion and decided to give it a try.
After four sessions, I was born again to the religion of exercise. I knew friends who had crossed over but I was shocked to find myself enjoying every workout, waiting for whatever transformation was surely happening to my ever sagging body.
Today I was wearing my brand new sweat pants which proved I was now one of the regular believers. I had spent considerable time choosing a pair that would not resemble spandex in any way but have a "I belong in a gym" feel to them. I was excited and began my work out with my personal savior by my side. She quietly told me how well I was doing. I smiled like a middle aged fool.
I had been very conscious of others in the gym and was aware that I looked somewhat larger than life. I was confident my new sweats would help me blend in with all the other jocks on the floor. The Y is a little different from other gyms, it has people from all parts of the city, some who looked like they'd just walked out of prison to some who looked surprisingly like me.
As I squatted with my back to ball I was feeling pretty cocky that I would be able to do all 3 sets with the big blue ball. Suddenly, an explosion to rival 9-11 pierced the calm hum of inhaling and exhaling at the correct time. I was hurtled through the air as two of the inner city jocks hit the floor as if they were seasoned Viet Nam war vets. I almost expected to see parts of an airplane strewn around me. I slowly realized I was sprawled on the floor in a very embarrassing pose with a dead blue ball lying in shreds next to me.
My personal trainer was staring at me for the longest time. By now, it was obvious that I was the source of the terrorist attack and that the danger had passed. Then she slowly picked up what was left of the big blue ball and lovingly folded it as if it were a flag flying over a courthouse. She mentioned that it was the first time that an exercise ball had exploded, that they were supposed to handle up to 800 lbs. I grimaced but said nothing.
It is now one day later.
I am sore but determined to go on with my life--- unless of course this all shows up on U Tube.
I can finally be considered a ball breaker. I'm proud.