Industrious By Example

My local gym reopened a few weeks back after being closed a month for renovations. It's not much different except for the absolutely hideous yellow paint. You know it's got to be bad for me to use a word like 'hideous.' Think of the palest, ugliest, most irredeemable yellow you've ever seen and that's what's on the walls. Like primer, except it's not primer, that's the color the walls are supposed to be. Horrible.
   They may have spruced up the place, but they kept the staff, including the guy who cleans. This guy doesn't speak much English - hardly any, actually - and he gets dropped off out front at 7 AM and picked up at 3 PM (I saw this on separate visits, I'm not stalking him). He's the guy who mops the floor, who dusts every piece of equipment, who cleans the sinks and the toilets and empties the trash.
   Man, that dude hustles. No matter when I'm at the gym when I see him he's always on the move, like a human freight train chugging along. I saw him this morning as a matter of fact, doing his usual thorough job of dusting. And I realized that I should probably be more like him. Do your job and do it well, no matter what it that job is. While I'm sitting here bemoaning my fate and grousing about my work situation and how it's not what I want it to be, this guy is out there hustling every day. Putting me to shame.
   I don't know... maybe with greater opportunity comes greater expectations? If this guy had worked his way up the ladder and then got put back in charge of a vacuum cleaner, would he give it the same effort he does now? Would he keep doing the same bang-up job if it was a job he hated? I don't know, and I hope he never has to find out.
   I tell you what, if I owned my own office building, I'd hire that guy away in a heartbeat. You gotta surround yourself with good people.

It's The Little Things

In case you haven't heard, I'm working now. It's a three-month gig, which if you're new explains the countdown at the bottom of this post. Now that I have money coming in again I'm starting to loosen the purse strings just the tiniest bit. No big extravagances ('cept maybe the book case, but that's an investment), I'm mostly just paying more on my regular bills. But there is one thing I'm looking forward to spending some hard-earned dough on.
   I'm gettin' me some new undies.
   My trusty old ones have been getting me by for a year now, and while they're holding up, I can't fight entropy forever. Underwear is a depreciating asset, after all.
   If you've been following me since the beginning you may remember that underwear is the deciding factor on when I do laundry, so I do keep track of my stockpile pretty closely. And, sure as a Wall Street Broker is cheating on his taxes, they're wearing out. My 'good' ones are becoming 'acceptable' and more of my 'acceptable' are edging towards 'workout.' And several in the 'workout' category are one good skid mark away from 'emergency.'
   So the next time Macy's has a sale - like, what? every weekend? - I'm going to walk in with my head held high, my credit card in hand, and say "A three-pack of your finest Jockey, my good man. I'm in the mood for a splurge."


COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 50 minutes to get to Burbank. You read that right, traffic was insane in the membrane today. I blame the Lakers.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 20-something days, I'm losing track...

Wouldn't That Hurt?

I was at the gym today, gettin' my sweat on, and I saw a guy running on the treadmill. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's what treadmills are for. There was something wrong, though, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was running... funny. And I do mean ha-ha funny. Comical, in a you-have-to-be-embarrassed-for-him sort of way. So I looked at the other guys beside him, and it hit me. The first guy was running on his toes.
   Normally you go heel-toe, heel-toe when you run. Like when you walk. But this guy had the speed cranked waaaaay up and he was prancing along on his toes like he was an antelope or something, and bobbing up and down like a piston. It was the oddest thing I've seen in that gym in a while.*
   The only thing I could think was 'man, that's gotta hurt...'
   Fast forward to thirty minutes later. I've finished with the cardio portion of my workout and I've moved on to strength and flexibility And who do I see but Prancer from the treadmill. And what was he doing? Groaning and moaning as he tried to stretch out his calves. You'd have thought he was having surgery with no anesthesia the way he was carrying on, wincing in pain and gritting his teeth.
   For a moment I thought I should go over and explain to him what I saw him doing, but then I thought better of it. Not really my business in the first place, and he was making a big show of stretching so he liked the attention that running like a douchebag brought him. And who am I to get in the way of someone else's desperate cry for attention?
   It does make me a little self-conscious, though. Am performing any exercises comically wrong? Am I in a glass house throwing stones here?
   Nah...


* aside from Mr. Grunty Seven-Rep and his torn wardrobe, but I'm used to that annoying bastard now

Just In Case Something Happens...

It's getting weird around here. Okay, fine, weirder.
   Last night I had a terrible night's sleep, really miserable, and I even tried to go to bed early. Couldn't get to sleep, tossed and turned, watched the clock slowly tick over the minutes hour after hour. I haven't had a night this bad since... since I had a regular job, I suppose.
   So this morning I went to the gym, only to find it empty. Literally. There were three people in a space where usually there are at least fifteen or twenty, with more coming in all the time. It was a ghost town. I talked to one of the trainers who said that three of his clients this morning all had a terrible night last night, couldn't get to sleep just like me. When I left the gym there were still fewer than half the people there who usually are.
   Now the absenteeism could be explained by St. Patrick's Day yesterday - possibly. It could be that every single person who usually gets to the gym at 7 AM was sleeping off too many green beers. Could be. But to have so many people who had trouble sleeping? We're moving beyond coincidence.
    Now I've put it out there, something weird is going on in Pasadena. If you don't hear from me, send in the rescue dogs.

Say My Name - Part 2

I'm getting old enough now that people generally call me 'sir' when they don't know what else to call me. Sometimes I'll get a 'buddy' or 'chief' or even 'dawg' now and then, but that's only in an informal setting, hoboes panhandling or what have you. In stores it's 'can I help you find something, sir?' or 'what can I get you, sir?' or 'yes, I'm certain you're too old to purchase a child's ticket, sir.'
   But recently I've noticed people calling my by my first name when I haven't given them permission to do so.
   Maybe it's just the old man in me rattling the bars of his cage again, but since when did it become acceptable for people to just assume they can address you informally, like a friend? I noticed it at the gym first, after I handed the guy my card he scanned it and said 'thanks, Don, have a good workout.' I know they mean it to be friendly and inviting, but I don't know this guy, and having him call me by my first name makes me wonder what else he's got on that hidden computer screen. Is he scanning my credit score? Does he have my home address? Does he know how I tipped the scales at my last weigh-in?
   Next it was the bank. They used to call me 'sir,' then it was 'Mr. Hartshorn,' and now it's 'Don.' I don't recall signing any approval for this, and I don't like it. I know the bank tellers can see all sorts of stuff about me and my accounts, so I'd prefer they kept it formal and went back to calling me 'sir.' When somebody calls me by my first name I always kind of expect that they're going to hit me up for money next.
   This has even happened to me at a restaurant, after I paid the tab. The waitress absconded with my card, ran it through the machine and then put it back on the table with a 'thanks, Don' as if she and I had been friends for years. It's just creepy and wrong, especially since I never took the time to remember her name even though she told it to me.
   At least at the grocery store they still call me 'Mr. Hartshorn.'
   So I'm putting everyone on notice, if you're not awarding me a million dollar jackpot, if I haven't given you permission beforehand, or if I'm not in front of you for medical advice or teeth cleaning, you don't get to call me anything but 'sir.' Well, maybe 'dawg' every once in a while. Makes me feel cool...

Why Are All The Fire Trucks Here?

As I left the building this morning to go work out I heard sirens. With the way the sound was echoing down the various streets, I had my suspicions immediately about where they might be headed. When I rounded the corner by the cooking school I saw that my hunch had been correct: the fire trucks - all six of them - were outside the gym.
   I saw civilians leaving the building and fire fighters gathered around the entrance, so using my Batman-like powers of deduction I concluded the fire fighters had ordered the building evacuated. The fact that several of the people exiting told me that exact thing only confirmed my amazing skill at piecing together information. But I know how these things go, and the firemen weren't in any sort of hurry. No hoses, no ladders, no axes, no urgency meant no fire. So I wandered up to the front door to wait for them to re-open the building.
   Here's the scene - six fire trucks in the street with lights flashing, fire fighters in reflective gear outside the door, gym employees outside the door, gym patrons outside the door. You'd think that anyone arriving would be able to figure out the situation immediately. And you'd be wrong.
   I stood there for fifteen minutes and nine people - I counted - came up and tried the door. And they all seemed genuinely surprised when the gym staff told them the place was evacuated and that they couldn't go in. One guy in a business suit said, and I quote him verbatim:
   "Really? Was there a fire?"
   I guess he thought the fire fighters were having a pancake breakfast fund raiser? That the fire truck ten feet away - literally - was for the kids to play on?
   Just when I start having faith in my fellow man again, somebody comes along to knock some sense into me. Are people that clueless, or are they that self-centered that they think fire trucks and evacuations are for other people?
   Yeesh. Some people just don't get it. This is why reality television is still profitable.
   On the plus side, I know now where the lockbox for the firemen's keys is. If you keep your eyes open you notice a lot of stuff.
   And, for complete closure on that anecdote, the fire was caused by a short in a wall plug (I overheard the fire fighters' radio), into which was plugged a vending machine. With an extension cord.

iPod Hijinks

A few weeks back the owner of my apartment building decided that the time had come to replace some of the worn exterior wood bits. This meant that for about two weeks straight there were carpenters all over the place, with saws going, wrenches turning, hammers banging, the whole works. I got used to seeing the guys, and since I was one of the few people around during the day they got used to seeing me. We even had a few conversations about my car, and I got used to being around people once again.
   Then they were gone, and I was alone. Bereft, as it were. No more racket interrupting my concentration, no more trucks blocking the entrance, no more Big Gulp cups on the stairs.
   So this morning I was headed out to the gym, wearing my iPod. While I do wear it at the gym, I rarely wear it any other time, so this was unusual. I was walking down the stairs, iPod kicking it old school with a little Public Enemy, Flavor Flav with 'Can't Do Nuttin' for You Man', a jaunty little ditty if ever there was one. Like many people do when they think they're alone, I was singing along, which I thought was humming, or maybe whispering.
   But I wasn't alone. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the plumber. He was coming up the stairs as I was going down and we met in the middle. Since he was the one with the toolbox I stepped out of the way and he kind of raised an eyebrow at me.
   'Gotta love the Flavor,' he said as he climbed to the second floor.
   Perfect. There's nothing like an extremely white guy like me getting caught rapping. Kind of pathetic and presumptuous at the same time. Guilty, as charged.
   I turned the iPod off until I got to the gym.

No Time For Biceps

Friday morning at 7 AM is the time I usually work out with my trainer, Steve. Normally I sleep in a little, but seeing as how I don't actually go into an office any longer today I had to wake up a little early. Bastards.
    I noticed that there are many more people in the gym these days. Usually there's a spike in attendance around the New Year, people making resolutions they know they won't keep, but I think as the economy tanks more and more, people are taking advantage of the money they've already spent on gym memberships. Good for them, but they're taking up space and getting their sweat on the equipment I use. Bastards.

Gym Etiquette for Guys
Even though I go to the gym regularly I'm no gym rat, but there are a few guys in the gym I need to set straight. I'll start with worst offenders in the locker room, later I'll address those on the gym floor.

In the locker room:
Mr. Spread-Out
there are 100 lockers and four benches, but somehow this guy thinks he can take an entire bench for himself. Shove over, asswipe.
Mr. Walk-Around-Naked
I know it's the locker room, but for God's sake, put on some underwear. And please, please, please don't dry off your johnson under the electric hand dryer.
Senor Speedo
seen only in gyms with pools. This usually-European offender proudly presents his banana hammock, unaware of the cringing around him
Cologne Boy
usually a younger man, sometimes a much older man, this guy thinks smell-good replaces deodorant. If it's enough perfume to set off the smoke alarm, it's too much.
The Foot Powder Jackass
Who uses foot powder any more? Didn't that go out with pomade and spats? Not for this guy, who spreads a liberal helping of it all over the floor, usually right where you
put your stuff.