So later in a list of Top 10 Things You Didn’t Know About Me (That You Probably Know) I’ll leave out the part about having 2 jobs. One of which I love and one of which I don’t. This blog is about the one I don’t. Spending 12 hours a week at L.A. Fitness (or LAF as it shall hence be referred to) pretty much sucks. I sit at the front desk checking people in and chit chatting with them. This has finally been replaced with reading a book as to avoid weird conversations. I get it. I’m friendly. I smile a lot and I’m fairly approachable…never mind the fact that I’m required by job responsibility to start all conversations by saying “Hello!” whenever someone walks in…but you’d be surprised by how comfortable people are with telling me their life stories. That’s where this blog was born. At LAF and my realization that I have had some weird-ass conversations thrust upon me. Please enjoy the dysfunction to which I’ve been subjected.
People Really Like To Talk To Me About Food. I’m not endorsing Pollo Tropical. I mean, I thoroughly enjoy a quick meal from there, but it’s not my favorite restaurant. However, my coworkers go there daily to get meals, and a girl needs to eat. So it’s a fair assumption that I’ll be eating it twice a week. It never fails that when people see me eating at the desk (which my OM despises – I’m supposed to eat in a hidden corner lest a patron think the staff isn’t the fittest people they’ve ever seen) they tend to talk about it. I’ve gotten “Pollo. You must really love that stuff,” and “You’ve got chicken, veggies, bread…nice well rounded meal.” It’s not particularly good conversation, but what is a girl to say other than “yep”?? Besides, leave me alone, dickface, I’m eating!
Do The Bears Play Tonight? Now this is a fair question. I often forgo my uniform for my Bears jersey on Sundays. Come to think of it, I break a lot of work rules…anyway. Thanks for noticing my interests and chatting about them with me. However, this conversation happened on a Tuesday night. No, idiot, the Bears are not playing tonight. They play on Sundays, the occasional Mondays (2 this season, actually) and a random Thursday, if I’m giving you leeway. If you’re going to use my interests to hit on me (an assumption I made at the time which proved to be 100% correct due to his asking me out about a week later) at least do your research. Laziness is such a turn off.
Sean’s First Date. I thought about changing the name for the purpose of anonymity, but after he saw my scribbled list for this blog and asked me about it – to which I said “no, it’s not about you and it’s not for my blog” I decided to go full honesty with you, because now it amuses me. So some random morning Sean (my weekend manager) sauntered over to tell me about his date the night before with a girl he met at a restaurant – she was the bartender. I’ve forgotten the details, but the important notes are as follows: she picked him up due to his lack of car, gambled, made her dinner, went to a strip club (because she feels comfortable there due to her prior profession) and then a supposed 4 hour banging sesh. All of this was in much MUCH too much detail. I asked multiple times to not be subjected to his descriptions, but to no avail. This lead to my claiming uncomfortable due to being a 26 year old virgin. This intrigued him and led to some fodder, but it stopped the sexual harassment level informational videos.
Heavy Metal Cruise. A member – at the end of his workout – shared information with me regarding a cruise for $1,200 that is a 7 day cruise littered with shitty heavy metal bands I’ve never heard of with names like “megasuckers” and “uberscream.” Probably. My lacking ability to (as my friend Amanda would say) disengage made this a 15 minute conversation about music that I DO appreciate and what would possibly persuade me to spend that kind of money for a “backstage” experience on a cruise ship with bands. Not a bad conversation topic, but absolutely out of left field…and I’d rather have that conversation on a date – not with some sweaty, orange-shaped gym rat.
Seven Kids with the Same Baby Mama. Sometime in the last year I apparently took on the physical traits of someone who has kids. I am only aware of this due to the increasing frequency with which I am asked about my child situation. Apparently I am part of the minority. I accept this. I’m perfectly happy with my lack of child due to safe-sex practices, plan B and sheer dumb luck. I actually fear that I am unable to bear children due to the fact that I can think of no fewer than 6 times I SHOULD have found myself knocked up, but that is a story/blog for another time. Anyway, this mentally challenged kid used to come to the gym all the time and mid-workout he would frequent the front desk to chat. One time he asked about my child status and then proceeded to tell me he is a daddy. A good one at that (if he does say so himself). And the reason I should apparently be enamored with him and immediately remove my panties: he has seven kids but they’re all with the same baby mama. The sound he must have heard at that point was the theoretical padlock on my vagisness shutting (as though it was ever unlocked.)
Christina’s HUGE fight. Apparently I am missing the gene where I flaunt any asset I feel I do have. Our weekend fitness manager is NOT missing that gene. She may actually have acquired mine…and about 10 others’ as well. This little firecracker works out at the gym where she works and chooses to wear half-shirts and tight yoga pants. She doesn’t wear panties, I assume, because I feel I’d see em if she did. So she gets off an elliptical and assumes the guy behind her is checking her out, confronts him, they get into a huge fight and we have to call the cops. We revoked the guys membership and listened to her run her little blond Cuban mouth for another 2 hours. Delightful.
Mongolian BBQ and Using the Phone. It’s 2011. Shit, it’s almost 2012. Why the fuck people have to use our phone to make calls and don’t have their cell on them baffles me, but it happens all the time. I’ll excuse the kids. If you don’t have a car, you don’t need a cell. Your parents SHOULD know where you are and if you need to call them to pick you up, I’m on board. I consider that good parenting. Full grown adults are another story. If you are calling your mother to ask her to take you to the chinese buffet so you can get Mongolian BBQ later and you look about 40, I have no patience for you. This is when I play my favorite prank. I dial the phone for these cell-less humans. In these cases I purposely dial the wrong number. Sometimes two or three times. It’s hilarious to hear them start asking to go to dinner and then realize they’ve propositioned the wrong woman. “Is this (954) [etc]? No. Oh, I’m so sorry!” HA!
Want To Be in a Video? Yep. I’ve been asked that. Story goes like this. New member comes over to my desk to get his picture taken and his introductory fitness assessment scheduled and my manager (who is with him) looks at me and says “Debbie. Want to be in a video?” First, I’m not an aspiring actress, but I DO love having claims to fame…so maybe this is a fair question. I suppose I WOULD like to be in a video, but I’m not naive enough to blindly answer. It’s a loaded question. What kind of video? Do I get creative license? What do I have to wear? Turns out the guy is a music producer for a start-up hip hop label. I informed him I am entirely too white and have not a single urban bone in my body and that while I appreciate the offer, I’ll pass. I only dance when drinking. I can walk pretty well and look good in sunglasses, but unless he wants to showcase that, I’m not his girl.
Exit Doors are for Exiting; Entrance Doors are for Entering. There are 4 doors to the gym. Two of them are labeled “EXIT” right at eye level. Unless you are a little person or Andre the Giant, you can see the signs clearly. Yet it never fails that at least 5 people a shift will pull on both exit doors, look in the window and question if we are open. Yes, genius, we are open. It says so on the hours posted on the door. Much like the fact that those two doors are for exiting the building. Apparently an IQ and common sense are not required for utilizing a gym. Or life, I guess.
Ghetto Gym. This isn’t a story or a conversation, but it none-the-less should be noted that my gym is a piece of shit. There are clubs out there with a TV attached to each machine (which is pretty fucking sweet if you ask me) and new carpet that was laid sometime since Regan was president. My gym is crap. Our ceiling leaks during heavy rain – and we’re in South Florida, so that happens daily. Our pool heater has been broken so many times. Our sauna is shot. There are broken machines all over the floor (which is dirty enough that I feel dirty walking on it in sneakers, let alone barefoot – which people tend to do … GROSS.)
Performance Enhancing Drugs. This blog revolves around LAF, but it’d be a good bet to assume that the performance we are enhancing is fitness related, but you’d be wrong. On the way out of a gym sesh, a member told me about a drug he began taking that has made him horny as shit (his words, not mine.) Apparently it has gotten his marriage back on track and gotten his almost-ex-wife to move back into their home. Look, I’m happy you’re happy, and I’m thrilled to hear that 60somethings can still have sex without breaking hips or having a heart attack, but I REALLY do not want to know about your herbal viagra. Now when he comes in he asks if I’ve picked up any for myself and/or my significant other. No. I haven’t.