Your Trainers Secret - New York Magazine

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Go for the burn? Fat chance. These days, it’s just as likely to be go for the epidural.

Personal trainers, as a golden rule, have fearsomely perfect physiques and tend to reel off their miniscule body-fat percentages as eagerly as if they were peddling low-interest mortgages. After all, their bodies are their calling cards. So if, after you’ve spent several months pumping up and working out under their tutelage, your handles are still lovely and your thighs still have dimples, the thinking goes, you have only yourself to blame.

At least, I always thought so. Until the other day, when I was moaning to my trainer during my umpteenth set of crunches. Every time I sat up, I was treated to the sight of another trainer across the room inspecting/admiring his six-pack in the mirror. “Why can’t I have abs like that?” I growled. My trainer looked around furtively, then made a sucking sound, as though taking a long sip from an imaginary straw.

“What’s that?” I asked, slow on the uptake. “Some wonder steroid drink?”

He rolled his eyes at my naiveté, leaned forward conspiratorially, and murmured the magic word. “Lipo.”

Let’s assume, then, that your trainer has no qualms about baring her supple thighs or his rippling stomach. That doesn’t mean that she or he isn’t hiding something: a teeny, tiny liposuction scar.

You heard it here first, Prominent Manhattan plastic surgeons report that liposuction is regularly performed on personal trainers, aerobics instructors, and sundry other fitness pros, athletes, and bodybuilders.

The flawless form you attributed to all those crunches may in fact be the work of a plastic surgeon. More and more fitness pros are turning to liposuction to lose those love handles. And only a fearless few are admitting it to clients. Shocked? Suck it up.

So it was three weeks ago that Lia Sanfilippo, a personal trainer at the Trainer’s Place in Manhattan and a physical-education teacher in the New York City public-school system, went to the cushy Fifth Avenue offices of Dr. John Sherman and permitted him to draw all over her with a magic marker. Making himself a map, Sherman would soon go where no exercise regime or diet had gone before: into her saddlebags and love handles.

“I trained like crazy,” Sanfilippo said before the surgery. “I did everything – teaching classes, taking classes, dieting – and those areas never went away.”

Sherman was only too happy to help. In little more than an hour, he suctioned out two pounds of fat, fore and aft, on the trainer. And then all there was to do was wait. “It takes about a month for you to see the results, and about three months for everything to look really perfect,” says Sherman.

Go for the burn? Fat chance. These days, it’s just as likely to be go for the epidural.

Personal trainers, as a golden rule, have fearsomely perfect physiques and tend to reel off their miniscule body-fat percentages as eagerly as if they were peddling low-interest mortgages. After all, their bodies are their calling cards. So if, after you’ve spent several months pumping up and working out under their tutelage, your handles are still lovely and your thighs still have dimples, the thinking goes, you have only yourself to blame.

At least, I always thought so. Until the other day, when I was moaning to my trainer during my umpteenth set of crunches. Every time I sat up, I was treated to the sight of another trainer across the room inspecting/admiring his six-pack in the mirror. “Why can’t I have abs like that?” I growled. My trainer looked around furtively, then made a sucking sound, as though taking a long sip from an imaginary straw.

“What’s that?” I asked, slow on the uptake. “Some wonder steroid drink?”

He rolled his eyes at my naiveté, leaned forward conspiratorially, and murmured the magic word. “Lipo.”

Let’s assume, then, that your trainer has no qualms about baring her supple thighs or his rippling stomach. That doesn’t mean that she or he isn’t hiding something: a teeny, tiny liposuction scar.

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