Life Lessons

Few other jobs lend themselves to bouts of self righteousness the way personal training did to me. I'd been in gyms most of my adolescent and adult life and got certified as a trainer because it complimented my schedule as a full time student.

I started out at The Evil Empire: Bally's, in my hometown of Peabody, and like many newly certified trainers, I was stricken with an obnoxious self righteousness. I became unteachable, insufferable. In short, a fool who spoke more than listened. Unhappy with their policies and sub par trainers, I started looking for another job.

I applied to The Sports Club LA and during the initial interview, a sharply dressed woman led me to a walk-in closet and handed me a stack of paper. One was an application. The other, an anatomical map with lines pointing to the muscles they wanted me to name. I failed not only the test but also the chance to realize that wisdom doesn't come from what you know, it spawns from the humility of knowing that you don't know.

On my way home I read an ad in the paper for Gold's Gym and went straight from the train to drop off a resume. The woman at the desk interviewed me on the spot and said she'd like me to meet the owners.

I met with them the next day and they offered me a position as an assistant manager. One Saturday after closing I took one last walk on the floor. To my surprise, I found a member standing on the cardio deck, between machines, walking in place while staring at her feet.

I asked, "Did you know that we closed about fifteen minutes ago?"

No answer.

I moved closer and spoke louder, "Excuse me, Miss, are you okay?"

She looked at me and said, "Yes, I'm fine."

I asked her again if she knew we were closed. She said, "Oh, no I didn't."

I wanted to run and call an ambulance but was worried she'd pass out, so I asked, "Do you know where you are?"

She pondered, then said, "No."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday?" she replied.

"Close. Do you know what year it is?" I asked.

"No."

"How about the president, do you know who the president is?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Johnson?"

I ran for the phone, called 911, and dropped the receiver knowing they'd come. I made a beeline for the vending machine that spit out my sugary selection. Still conscious, she took the drink and sipped hesitantly.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"Funny."

"Do you know what city you're in?"

"No."

The ambulance showed. She started answering some of the questions correctly but still got obvious ones wrong. They took her to the hospital and kept her for observation, discovering that her electrolytes were dangerously low. Life presented a chance to familiarize me with its fragility, but instead I walked away thinking the woman was an idiot.

Not long afterward, I received a call from an elderly man looking for a personal trainer who could come to his apartment. He wanted me to train his wife, who was experiencing periodic losses of balance and consequently had suffered devastating falls. When I met her, she had a shiner that covered half of her face.

She was 95, frail, and could barely walk without a walker. He had suffered his second heart attack and was worried that he wouldn't be able to help her if she fell again. We used the equipment in the apartment building's basement.

She admitted to me while looking out the window into the courtyard, "I'm ready."

"To be done?" I asked, thinking I worked her too hard.

Her eyes glossed over, "To go," she said, "I've lived a full life. I've traveled, raised a wonderful daughter, had a successful marriage. Look at me. I can barely walk. I've become a burden. It's time for me to go. If it wasn't for Joe, I'd go now," she said, as if she could flick a switch. It was an example of how to face death with integrity, but instead I still obsess over death's inevitability.

I walked into Equinox last summer, humbled not by the prospect of working with the cream of the crop, but more by its location, knowing what passed for excellence in Boston far exceeded anything in the suburbs. In the classes Equinox paid me to attend, I faded, listening to less than half of what some of the greatest minds in fitness were trying to teach.

With lagging sales and dismal paychecks, I started looking for a different job, thinking yet again of a geographical cure for ignorance. Instead, I laid down my arms, picked up a foam roller, then bought a few sessions from the best selling trainer in the company, hoping to learn from his knowledge and experience. Maybe after forty years I'm learning to listen, instead of lusting after the sound of my own voice.