Health Care: Life at da club...

Another week, another beat down.  But this time I found it difficult to walk out of da club, and was considering my options.

My problem wasn't that I wanted the exercise to stop, but rather that I actually found it difficult to maintain a standing or walking position.  My balance was shot and my muscles burned deeply.

I arrived a little early so that I could jump on an elliptical or a bike for a few minutes to warm up.  The wife had decided not to come, as she was planning on dusting off her Jane Fonda-ish workout video and giving it yet another shot.

"But who's going to drive me home?" I begged.

She then reminded me that I did have a cell phone, and that we only lived minutes from da club.  Bitch.  Pain is much easier to deal with when you have someone to whine to immediately after the experience.  Doesn't she fucking know that?

I saw Danny when I was all ready to go, and he passed me off to Brendan.  I knew it was going to happen sooner or later.

There are two kinds of employees down at the trainers' desk.  There are the black shirts and the blue shirts.  It's kind of like Star Trek in that way.  If you try to think of everything in terms of Star Trek, life does become a little easier.

Until you try to explain it to normal people.  Then it's kind of... weird.

The black shirts are the leads.  They sell the "all the pain you can take and more" packages, start the training so they can analyze your needs and your style to find the right blue shirt for you.

The blue shirts are the trainers.  Generally speaking, they don't have as much personality and are not nearly as fun as the social butterflies that are known as the black shirts.  And of course I'm taking that from my vast knowledge of blue shirts I've talked to.  Two.

When this had all clicked in my brain, I realized something.  And in the Star Trek context, it's perhaps the worst thing ever.  I was wearing a red shirt, and this is technically an away mission.

Fuck me running.

My new blue shirt friend is a professional Martial Arts fighter, and has been for 9 years.  He looks like he's barely old enough to drink and weighed roughly 8 lbs, 4 oz., but what the fuck do I know about that?

The only real "fight" I was in lasted for about a tenth of a second.  However, the teasing afterward went on for about a week.

I was in high school.  One of my football teammates (you know the one... the asshole of the team), started talking to me and my actual friends on a Saturday night at the local hang out.  I was drunk, because hey... it was Saturday night and I wanted to get a jump start on training for college and beyond.

He gave me shit for it since we were only 16, and I told him to go to hell (I think).  He pushed me, and my head hit the wall of a building and I was done.  

Yes, I cried.

Not a great story, I'll admit.  But when I see this guy at the 20 year reunion, I'll wait until he's drunk and then blindly try to punch him in the face, shrieking like a little bitch, "Who's the loser now, asshole?"  

But I'll be drunk too, so maybe I need to come up with a different plan.  I definitely need to get in better shape.  At least I've got a year to train for it.

"I'm not a professional fighter," I said to the blue shirt.  "I'm an amateur lover."  I'm so witty.

I don't know whether he just didn't get it or if he was ignoring me.

"Though I have been thinking of going pro."

Crickets.

This blue shirt had all the personality of an on duty cop.  What a hard ass.

So the blue shirt beat me down like only a redshirt knows how to take... and I think that would be a great title for a country song, at least in the Star Trek realm.  And at Sci Fi Conventions.  Whether you call them Trekkies or Trekkers or Trekkors, they're still fucking geeks, and they just eat up shit like that.

Taking a cue from last week's beating, I decided to go to the strongest part of my body, my legs.

As a side note, during my evaluation, Danny (the black shirt) was surprised by my leg strength.  I did a max of about 330 lbs. on the leg press.  However, I think he was also equally confused by my lack of arm strength.  So maybe it all evens out in the end.

I've always had solid legs.  I get that trait from my dad's side of the family, who are mostly all "sturdy" folk.  Let's just put it this way... none of them are wearing skinny jeans, even the skinny ones.  

I tried on skinny jeans once (when I was skinny) and felt like I was going to burst out of them like the fucking Hulk, only I would have been the Incredible Albino Hulk -- or the Great White Hulk, which I think sounds a little more ominous.

Though, does the name really matter if you can't fight and are prone to cry easily and often?  Might as well be the Great White Hulking Mass of Grown Up Baby.

The blue shirt took me around the gym, beating my legs senselessly.  Or maybe it was sensefully, as it was with purpose.  

Either way, it still fucking hurt.

It was kind of a blur.  I remember lots of different modified lunge positions, a large step, squats, leg curls and more lunges.  Of course, all were done in combination with each other, multiplying the pain factor by 10 to the sixth power.

We finished it all off with a tough but fairly light core workout on the mat, and we were done.  I was breathing heavily, my red shirt drenched in sweat, but didn't feel nearly as shitty as the week before.

Then I tried to get up.

Then I thought about what it would be like to just stay there until I could stand.  

Then I thought about staying the night.

I figured that I could sleep on the mats, though I'd probably need a blanket or a fire... or a different fucking shirt that wasn't completely fucking drenched.  I looked like I had just been in a water park with a half-day pass.

Considering I was a redshirt, I knew that if I stayed I was doomed for sure.  I'd get eaten by an invisible creature or get a laser beam to my brain.  Either that or one of the gym's numerous cougar population would surely devour me, most likely out of sheer desperation.  

Especially the mother of all cougars.  The wife and I can't help but notice her in da club every single time we go.  She prowls around, always in a different tight outfit to show off the hardened muscles under her leathery, over tanned skin.  That, combined with her bleach blonde hair and the creepy vibe she throws off (kind of a cross between a realtor and an axe murderer, or Suze Orman), she has come to be one of the ones to watch (out for) at da club.

And, like the wild cats in the fucking zoo, she has a particular route she always takes in her lair.  She walks from the classroom, winding around through the machines to the main aisle so she can get a look in the free weights section, bounding up the stairs to scope out the ellipticals and bikes before grabbing one of the treadmills.  Then she'll hop off the treadmill and head back down the steps to stop at the basketball court, walk past the racquetball courts (especially during the weekly tourneys) and walk back to the classroom.

I'm never sure if she's looking to find a free machine or if she's looking at the people.  Though I usually feel violated in some way when she breezes past me.  

But if I remained on the mat, I don't think she'd be able to resist a helpless, brightly colored animal.  And I don't think my wimpy arms or terrible fighting skills would help any.  I had to get up.  

So I pushed off and wobbled up on my feet like a fucking newborn foal.  I then proceeded back to the trainers' desk, walking like I just had my first colonoscopy (or a really shocking time at a roadside rest area).

I thanked my blue shirt for kicking my ass without killing me and scheduled my next beating.  I can already tell this is going to be... fun.  Riiiiiiight.