working out

I was watching some makeover show last night (I know, I know) and the activity that the makeover woman chose to help her loose weight was cardio stripping.

Now, before I become completely enraged, let me say that I’d heard of cardio stripping before and thought that it made at least a little sense. The first time I saw it, there was a pole that the class utilized to promote upper body strength. But in this women’s class, there was no pole! As far as I could see, everyone in the class stood in one place, swung their hips around a little, and pretended to unbutton imaginary shirts. I read online later that this is par for the course - there is no real, actual stripping in cardio stripping (that might make people uncomfortable) just as there seems to be no real cardio in cardio stripping (that also might make people uncomfortable).

In my mind, then, cardio stripping lets women live two fantasies at one time: 1) that they are sexy women who are edgy enough to strip and 2) that they enjoy going to the gym and exercising. Cardio stripping allows them to strip without actually stripping and take an exercise class without breaking into a sweat.

Let’s talk about stripping first: stripping is something that you traditionally get paid to do and not the other way around. Why is this so? Because as much as we all enjoyed that scene from True Lies, we all understand that stripping is not fun. In fact, it’s kind of icky, which is why it pays well and why your dad doesn’t want you to do it. Sure, stripping can be fun and empowering if a long-term partner was involved and if it took place the privacy of your own home, but could it possibly be fun in a Lucille Roberts with 20 strangers? Do you really think that any real, actual strippers would ever take a cardio stripping class for fun? Of course not. They are too busy crying softly, dating the wrong men, and doing coke.

And if stripping really were a fun activity, why are they not really, actually stripping during the class instead of miming it? If you were really edgy, wouldn’t you be doing the real thing?

What’s next on the cardio [blank] trend of women’s fantasies? Cardio two firefighters in love with you at once? Cardio kidnapped baby that is eventually returned to you after a blitz of media attention? Cardio eat the whole gallon of ice cream? (Don’t worry, you don’t actually eat the whole carton of ice cream, you just pretend to.)

The second part of the problem seems to be that we as a country are trying way too hard to make going to the gym really fun. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love going to the gym - it improves my mood, it motivates me, it relaxes me, it empowers me, it energizes me, and it gives me an awesome sense of accomplishment. Even with all of these positive feelings, though, I wouldn’t call going to the gym fun, just as I wouldn’t call my job fun even though I love it.

But it seems that, mostly due to advertising and the media, that people are demanding that their gym experience be nothing but good times - like a Friday night or a birthday party. They don’t seem to realize the sad fact that really fun things usually aren’t good for you, and that the most rewarding things that you can accomplish aren’t as simple as a cakewalk or a series of hip gyrations. Pushing yourself at the gym can be fun, but it will never be fun in the same way that the fantasy of stripping will be.

Cardio stripping has given me a great idea for a business, though. It will make DOUBLE the money of any gym or strip club because it will be both. Women pay me to come in and cardio strip and men pay me to come in to leer at them! Everybody wins! I’m taking suggestions for names.

Many of you are familiar with cell phone guy, a douchebag (and I do not use that term lightly) at my gym who is constantly calling his guy friends and having inane conversations with them about a narrow spectrum of topics that range from the digital quality of the most recent celebrity sex tapes to whether or not cell phone guy could do a better job on the field than one Yankee player or another.

He seems to have a bad case of the short guy complex, an even worse case of facial hair, and an overall obnoxious demeanor. He’s got that thing going where he is constantly trying to convince everyone around him that he’s cool, and I hate that thing.

When I had a real job with real hours, cell phone guy and I used to go to the gym at the exact same time every day and, without fail, I would end up having to hear him talk to some buddy about riveting subjects such as how he was totally at the gym working out. It drove me mad - to the point at which I one day walked up to him and yelled, simply, “Cell phone!” He did not take it well, but he also did not stop his chatty behavior. In fact, I’m pretty sure that after the shouting incident, he started picking elliptical machines close to me and began calling more and more people.

Thankfully, at about this time, I quit my job - a move that not only improved my sanity career-wise but that also allowed me to go to the gym earlier in the day. Cell phone guy seemed to be in my past. However, as the weeks go by, I find myself missing our contentious relationship, to the point where I enjoy showing up at the gym so that our workouts overlap by only five minutes or so - long enough for me to get a good long glare in and long enough for me to have that mini day dream where I get to refer to him as “Chatty Cathy” (Ben’s name for him) to his face.

In fact, I have a few mini hateful daydreams about him. I picture him living his lame life, perhaps spending too much time each morning sculpting his utterly disgusting goatee-stache, perhaps lying about his height on an online dating site, perhaps wondering what it would be like to actually have sex with a girl. I revel in the fact that talking on the cell phone prevents him from going fast enough on his elliptical for him to see any results. I love assuming that the people he is calling are either all in prison or all in his role-playing club.

Here’s the point: I think I have an unhealthy, hate-filled relationship with this guy. And, more than that, he might not even give me a passing thought - an idea that makes me even angrier. Cell phone guy is a recurring character in my life and in my imagination, and he might not even be taking the time to hate me back.

Is this normal? Do you see people in your everyday lives that you have constructed entire lives and personalities for? More than that, do you ever hate these people? Or is it always the cute girl at the coffee shop who hands you your cinnamon bagel every morning, and are you just imagining how wistful and quirky and lonely she is all day?

I think I have a problem. I’m just not sure what that problem is. For the time being, I’m going to assume my problem is, plainly and simply, cell phone guy.

Entering our gym yesterday, Ben and I noticed a new sign taped on the door advertising a Valentine’s Day Sale in which you could get your sweetheart a membership and some private sessions for a reduced cost. We both thought this was odd and probably a bad idea - but assumed that it was an isolated case of a bad marketing idea. But - low and behold, my friend Brian also saw a similar sign at a different gym in a different borough.

I can see it now — men making this mistake all throughout New York City: “Hey honey! For Valentine’s Day I got you that gym membership that you’ve never mentioned you wanted!”

Now, don’t get me wrong: I can envision a situation in which this would be an acceptable V-Day gift. For example, if your girlfriend or wife already has a membership at said gym and the membership is about to expire, and if your girlfriend was also untraditional enough to want something practical for Valentine’s Day instead of, say, a pink talking stuffed dog.

However, for the most part, I think that this is a BAD gift idea for a woman on the most romantic of fake holidays. Why not just sit her down on Valentine’s Day and explain to her that you are no longer physically attracted to her? Why not just take out the middleman and break up with her?

Lord knows I’m no expert on women, but I’ve watched enough Lifetime Original Movies to understand that whatever you give her on Thursday better 1) be pink and heart-shaped and 2) not imply that she needs to put in some time on the treadmill.

Or have we misinterpreted this V-Day gym membership sale entirely? Are you supposed to get a gym membership for yourself, so that you improve your looks and stamina for your partner? I think that might be a little too abstract. Maybe we should stick to flowers and boxes of chocolates.

Of course, I should mention that Ben and I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day - or we do, but only as a joke. I think last year we went to the grocery store and bought one of those giant heart-shaped cookies together and then ate way too much of it while watching TV. It was kind of gross.

I recently tried out a new machine at the gym: it’s made by Life Fitness and called the Summit Trainer. As you can see from the picture, it’s a lot like if an elliptical trainer and a stair climber got it on and had a baby. It mimics a hiking motion and is really pretty hard but rewarding.

I liked it a lot - it’s one of those in-between machines that tones your muscles while you get a cardio workout at the same time. And after I added it to my weekly grab bag of gym activities, I started noticing how well the machine worked out my butt. I’m talking about a noticeable physical difference as well as general mental ass-esteem. As someone who despises squats and lunges and as someone who has beat up knees, it was totally awesome to find an ideal glute exercise.

I also noticed that the other people who used the Summit Trainer also had nice asses - sure, their asses were of all shapes and sizes, but every last ass of the regular Summit users was, in their own way, generally looking gooood.

Here’s the thing, though: why is it called the Summit Trainer? To me, the word summit brings to mind Everest, crampons, crags, and possibly getting lost until you are dead or at least until you are hungry. If I really wanted to summit something, maybe I wouldn’t be a half-block from my house at the gym, I’d be somewhere in the wilderness, getting to the top of things for no reason.

It is at these moments that I once again lament not being an advertising big wig in charge of everything. It took me over a year before I even tried the Summit Trainer. But what if it had been named something a little closer to my actual experience? Closer to its greatest feature? What if it were called the Ass Machine?

I can see the commercial now - a woman sitting at her kitchen table, hands curled around a steaming cup of coffee, talking candidly to the camera. “The Ass Machine really effected my ass,” she would explain, as if she were talking to her close friend. “It’s fun to do, it’s challenging, and you feel and see results.” She would smile, take a sip from her mug, and say, “I don’t give a crap about climbing things. I just want a powerful, slap-worthy caboose.”

Sometimes I really wonder how I could possibly be unemployed.

January 2nd is an extraordinary day at the gym. The number one resolution each year is to be healthier, and, after recovering from their hangovers on January 1st, people stampede to the gym in droves. It feels a lot like the first day of camp or something - new and nervous faces and a lot of bunching shorts. Of course, unlike camp, most people won’t make it a month.

I like seeing the new people, but I don’t like the crowded locker room or waiting for machines. More specifically, I don’t like that some woman was using my unofficial locker, which she should have obviously known was mine through either ESP or osmosis. I don’t like watching someone misuse weights and ignore the advice of the personal trainer who comes over to help.

It’s on these rare days that the gym regulars that I usually can’t stand (The Grunter, Guy Who Only Works Out His Biceps And Nothing Else, The Samurai, Guy Talking On His Cell Phone At The Gym) are my unlikely allies. When, for example, a newbie is somehow taking up an entire bench in the locker room with her shit, I can lock eyes with Girl Who Thinks She Is A Boxer Even Though She’s Really Just An Owner Of Boxing Gloves and, for one moment, not hate her with my entire heart.

Still, there’s something thrilling about seeing the new guys. It’s kind of like that scene in Shawshank Redemption when all the new prisoners arrive and the old prisoners bet on who’s going to cry first - everyone remembers their first day. On one hand, you want everyone to survive. On the other hand, you want to think that you were special simply by surviving yourself.

I like to guess who’s going to stay. Most people fade out and completely disappear by the middle of February. A handful keep showing up - even during the coldest days of the last half of the winter, even after it heats up, even if something goes wrong in their lives. It’s like guessing who’s going to get shot in a war movie.

For example, last year on January second, I noticed a big guy with a scruffy beard who was new - the kind of guy you see in Queens that is obviously a recent immigrant from any number of vague Eastern European countries that didn’t exist when I took geography in sixth grade. He was half-jogging, half-running on the treadmill and looking shy although pretty damn determined. He was there every single day until I switched gyms last spring, but I still see him at the local grocery store sometimes, looking utterly transformed. We still nod at each other - like we’ve been though something together (camp or prison or war, according to my lame mixed metaphors).

But for every determined scraggly bearded guy, there were ten people I saw today who won’t make it to next week. Some of them are easy to pick out: the girls with the brand new matching workout outfits that look like something Aerobics Barbie would slip into for her new animated video. The dudes who come to lift weights in jeans and work boots. The girl who tries to do the stair climber with chandelier earrings.

It all works out in the end, though. The people who stay are the people who we, the motley crew of regulars with our own idiosyncrasies, would like to stay, for the simple reason that they want to stay. If they keep coming, they’ll learn. The awkward mom who didn’t quite understand how to do the rowing machine will perfect it in a month. The 70-year-old grandfather who walks on the treadmill for 30 minutes each day will learn to not wear dress socks. The hipster chick with the leg warmers will soon enough trade in her five-pound weights for ten-pound weights, and then fifteen. Soon enough, we’ll all be nodding at each other in the grocery store. It’s a good feeling.