Today’s Topic –Why Winning Friends and Influencing People Ain’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be
So, I’ve recently returned to the gym. I hate the fact that I wasn’t born with one of those metabolisms that seems like a caloric black hole, or limbs that stay well within toned or pleasantly rounded without going over into plump or heaven forbid, chubby. I hate that I don’t love downing water and vitamins and protein bars like a good healthy person is supposed to do. I LOATHE sweating –it’s horribly undignified –and because I am not one of the abovementioned types, I unfortunately HAVE to work out hard enough to sweat bullets before any damn good actually comes of it.
Must stop before seething bitterness sets in.
Anyways, so when I was realizing that now was the time to “go for the gold” or whatever, I decided I didn’t want to go to some stupid corporate gym with a contract and sign-up fee and where I could be attacked by some not-so-well-meaning athletic type with a pair of calipers (you know, FAT PINCHERS) and a disapproving frown. I didn’t want to be surrounded by pretty people and gym cruisers, I didn’t want to worry about getting my unseemly damp on one of the machines for fear I might offend one of the other ladies’ sensibilities. It’s bad enough that when you work out, your brain (and belly) are in direct competition with your body –I don’t need to feel like I’m competing against everyone else’s bodies as well. (Their brains are sadly no match for the most part.)
So –I chose a place that offered me the three things I wanted: Close by, low price, and a climbing wall.
Solution –The Broadway Armory, a former military base that was retrofitted into a place for various athletics. They have a nice basketball court, should you be so inclined (I’m not,) a gymnastics room that puts the entire place I work at to shame, and a small but well appointed workout room with treadmills, recumbent bikes, elliptical machines, various weight machines, free weights, and some medicine balls. There is also a climbing wall though it’s out right now on loan to a school. Essentially it has everything I want for the low price of $25 for three months, courtesy of Chicago
I can get behind this.
So I’ve been going and working out –and I like it. I met a couple of people the first time I was there and I see them occasionally, but for the most part, I go, do my workout, and leave. I like it that way. I know my body. I know my limits. I know that I’m never going to be a lithe water nymph with a body destined for plaster fountains and labels on the fancier kinds of cake soap. I’m okay with that. I just want to tone up and get healthy. And it’s been working.
Then I hit a snag.
It’s called “Thérèse’s misguided belief that she must be nice to people” –and believe you me, it’s a facet of my personality that I often wish I could toss into someone’s caloric black hole. Let ‘em chew on that for awhile.
So…
I’ve done my time on the bike (10 miles) and the rowing machine (20 minutes) and I’ve started on my weights workout. Now, mostly for my arms, I’m just toning because the biceps are already huge. But I wanted to work on my triceps, and to my wonderment, it turns out there’s a machine that can be used for a tricep workout –I watched another woman doing it earlier. So I go over, set the weight, and begin to go through reps. About into my third or fourth…um…pull or whatever, this guy stops me. I can tell by his gestures (and broken English) that he is trying to tell me I’m not doing it right. I smile to show I’m not offended by his interference and he shows me how to tuck my thumb in and then where to position my arms. Then he suggests 4 sets of 8 to start with. I thank him, smile and begin to get on with it. When I’m done I turn around and he launches into an explanation of how I should do squats as well. He demonstrates the free-standing squats which I tell him I can’t do because of an accident –but that I can use the machine to do them. He doesn’t seem to get this –or he’s disappointed by the fact that I got in an accident. He keeps trying to get me to try it, I keep smiling and shaking my head. Then, he says I should use the bike –I say that I do. He says I should use the bike. I say that I do –in fact, I had already done 10 miles that very day. He then says I should use the treadmill., I say I do. He says I have to use it every day –I nod politely. Then he says that I have to use it because, “Down there, you are bigger. Up here, you are fine, but down there you are bigger.” To emphasize his point, he runs his hands down me…not in a sexual sort of way –more like he was sizing up a horse…or a side of beef. I waited for him to ask to see my teeth. I fixed my smile in place, nodded and said, “Well that’s why I’m coming here. To work out.” He then begins to poke and prod my arms and my stomach telling me which machines to use, for how long each day and in what order. I begin to wonder if he has any idea how much the services of a personal trainer go for…
At this point he stops and asks me, rather brokenly, if I am embarrassed by his trying to help me. I say no, and I thank him for the advice and move to go away. He then says something like, “I like you because, you not, you no have the mean face when I talk to you. You know? Like some people here, they do not like it when you talk to them. They get the mean face. You don’t.” I smile to show I understand and he bursts into hearty laughter and embraces me, kissing my neck on both sides.
My courtesy has made me feel most common indeed.
He then asks if I am married. I smile brightly and say, ‘Why yes, for two years! Hard to believe!” and I’m kind of doing what I call the “killing time” chuckle –the one where you hope if you jolly it up for long enough and then slowly taper off, they’ll get the point and leave you alone. No such luck. He then introduces himself (I forgot his name but I do recall that he was mightily impressed that I pronounced it correctly) and I tell him a different name, and then he hugs me again and proceeds to do one of the most DISGUSTING and DISCONCERTING things I’ve ever gone through…which believe me, is saying something: Now, I’m sweating obviously, both from the workout and the fact that it’s 98 degrees in there. He begins to tenderly wipe drops of sweat off my face with his fingers –like they were tears. This is by no means endearing –it’s gross. This is sweat –refuse from my pores. This is salty, rejected by-product of exertion –it’s just plain icky. And he’s very lovingly wiping each drop as it falls –as though we were on a sidewalk while rain was falling and the drops were landing on my skin, to be brushed aside by him. Only we’re in a cramped room with weight equipment, a basketball game going on about 10 feet away, and some poor bastard on the elliptical machine looking like he doesn’t know whether or not to be profoundly disturbed and hence spurred to act in my defense -or whether to be profoundly disturbed and just concentrate on his calories per hour burned.
I try to wipe the sweat off with a towel –he once again asks if he has offended. He then says that he is newly arrived in Chicago Iraq
*sigh*
Alright, so I tell myself, “Look, don’t be a bitch to the guy whose country we essentially firebombed. He’s not doing anything too horrible –just try to get out of there quickly. And for god’s sake, stop smiling!”
Thus armed with this internal dialogue, I do a few more reps and then pretend that my cell phone went off and that I’ve got to go to work. He of course is devastated. He also wants to know when I will be back and at what time. *looks at clock* I should be there now I think.
More hugging and neck kissing ensue following by hand gripping, hand kissing and “sad face.”
I beat a hasty retreat for the solitude of my car and drive home, letting the wind dry my sweat and praying that I can unlearn this most dastardly of skills know as “Winning friends and influencing people” –or put it to good use carrying out my even more dastardly plots.
Either way.
And now that my day here is done and the temperature has cooled off, I’m headed to the even cooler recesses of the movie theater.
More next week!
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