The Gym

Yesterday Tom signed me up at the gym without telling me first, and I can't say I was happy about it.  Nine years ago, when we lived in Bradenton, Florida, I was sweet-talked into signing a year's contract at The Life Fitness Center by an overly attentive, handsome, physically-fit personal trainer who took an unusual interest in me and my body. At first I was skeptical and suspicious of his intentions.  Was his myopic focus on me sincere or did he have an alternative motive, say money?

The day after I signed the contract, I was back at the gym wearing mama jeans, an Indiana University T-shirt, and flip-flops.  I spotted Mr. Attentive by the elliptical machine talking to a potential client, so I found the closest treadmill to the elliptical and started slow walking.  While I waited for my personal trainer to acknowledge me (he was only two machines away), I saw two men exchange harsh words and then begin fighting.  A third man joined in and then a fourth.  A heavy set woman jumped on the back of one of the men and stuck her fingers up his nose.  It was mayhem.  Finally Security arrived and the fight was over.  After that Jerry Springer stepped up onto the stage, but I couldn't hear what he was saying because there was no volume on the gym's televisions, only closed caption that was too small to read.

After walking for five minutes on the treadmill, I was exhausted.  I didn't know that getting into shape was going to be so hard, but I wasn't concerned because my personal trainer would help me through the hard times. But, where did Mr. Attentive go?   The elliptical machine, where he had been moments earlier, was now occupied by a thin, attractive, color-coordinated prom queen.

I canvased the gym until I found him lying on a bench press stand, and he was alone.   As he struggled to lift a long bar loaded with weights over his chest, I patiently waited for the right moment to get his attention.  I was far enough away as to not be hovering, but I was also close enough that he had to know I was there.

After several minutes of what felt like stalking, I left to use the restroom and when I returned, my trainer was working out with Miss Prom Queen.  He didn't remember me from the day before.  Imagine that.  When I asked him if he was available to train me, his comment was, "You'll need to make an appointment at the front desk, Ma'am.  I charge $90 an hour."  

The Bradenton gym and I parted ways after a few months, but now I'm a card-carrying member of the Franklin gym and today, after working out with my personal trainer (who asked for no money), my body (especially my swiss-cheese bones) thanks Tom.  I won the best-mate lotto.