The following is based on a true story (unfortunately) as told by a client of MVP Fitness:
...as I come barreling into the health club's door 10 minutes late, I can relax because he's not lying in wait at the front desk ready to pounce. Not so fast. "He's waiting for you in the weight room," the guy at the desk tells me. CRAP! He never really minds when I'm late, but when I am, he makes me pay. In lactic acid. He should be thankful. I wasn't even going to show. I was going to tell him that Bobby overthrew Peter and the football hit me in the shoulder, and now my nose is swollen. Never mind. He'd know it was a lie. Somewhere beneath all that crust is a cheesy childhood. Let's move on.
I get to the weight room and he's already pacing like a caged lion. He normally smiles and introduces a session with idle chit-chat...when I'm on time. "Let's get this done." He's not even looking at me. He turns and tosses me a pair of boxing gloves. I love the boxing workouts as long as they don't (AW COME ON!) involve those a ankle cuffs with the resistance band. "Strap these around your ankles." Gee, I never noticed whether or not "OB-GYN" came after his name on his business cards, but now I can think of at least one other place I'd rather be.
Here they come. The dreaded "perp walks". The idea is to walk sideways in a squatting position as I throw punches at the mitts he's wearing. This goes the length of a basketball court. 10 times. I think I hate him. I tell him it hurts. "Is it fatigue, or pain?" Huh? "Because if it's fatigue..." I know, I know, you don't care. Yup, I hate him. He has this "thing" where he says "with a little more purpose, please." That means he needs me to work harder. Apparently I'm still not working hard enough. He tells me to imagine it was Valentine's Day, and my boyfriend bought me carnations...yellow carnations. OH MY GOODNESS. That did it. The punches start flowing like french champagne. I HATE champagne! "Now THAT'S what I'm talkin' about," he shouts. What happened next took our relationship to a whole new level.
See, robot-boy thinks he's a motivational speaker. Most of the time he's blabbering about opportunity, purpose, and life quality. Actually, it is quite motivating. I would talk about it more, but I need to keep this story flowing like you know what. Last week, while boxing, I faked a punch that would have landed square on his chin. He laughed and said, "that was your chance. Should have taken it." We're just about done with this torture. I'm really hating him. A LOT. My mother would not be proud of my profanity-laced tirade. I suddenly remember the advice he gave me last week. I see an opportunity, and I take it. Right cross punch. Right into his eye. "HOLY CRAP are you ok?" I'm SO trying to not laugh. I want to hit him again. Bring it on Cyborg. Or shall I call you "Cy-CLOPS". Are you kidding me? He doesn't even look at me. "6 more." NO NO NO! We're supposed to be done. There's no way that he knows I punched him on purpose. He's just being his usual psycho self. That's why I hit you. Next time, I'm hitting you twice.
We finally finish what I consider the worst experience of my life, and can't BELIEVE I pay to have it happen. Get these stupid things off. I can't move my legs, and I'll have to wring my shirt out before I leave.
He walks me to the door. Just before he turns away he says, "chances like that only come once...ONCE. Next week, we're doing 50." "50! WHY!" I asked if he was mad that I hit him. "No. I was mad because you were late."
Not sure if I'm showing up next week. Something suddenly came up.
0 comments:
Post a Comment