Yesterday...

My 250lb client told me she can already feel changes. We met the first day the new 50,000 sq. ft. club opened. She walked around with a glazed look in her eyes.
"Can I help you?" I asked, thinking her husband would answer. He had the same look only slightly more pessimistic than hers.
"Yes, I signed up and bought three personal trainer visits, I need to get started." She was easily the largest client I've ever had. Part of me was delighted, who the hell can't show someone like this results? But on our first day I realized the challenge we both faced. She had a tough time fitting into the machines, a problem that could have easily backfired on me. Sometimes I forget how hard it must be for anyone even slightly overweight to join a gym and work out with the likes of The Boston Celtic Cheerleaders. But she didn't care.
"I need to do this." She proclaimed as she peered at me over the rims of her designer glasses, forgiving me my digressions and squeezing herself into the leg extension to spite me. Her flaming red hair contrasts the dull steel gray of the machine she is manhandling.
On our second appointment we chat about the upcoming weekend, did she have any plans? "Oh I'll probably make some jewelry, bake some muffins, that's how I got this way you know, baking," she chuckles, "flour and sugar. And alcohol."
"Are you in recovery?" I ask. Not a typical question, but we addicts can sniff another out in seconds.
"Seventeen years." She answers while hoisting thirty pounds up with both legs.
"Twelve." I say.
We both crack up laughing. Her laugh emanates from deep within and rumbles out of her like a stampede. A bond is set and drying. We meet twice a week. I help her get fit, she helps me empathize.