Foot in Mouth and Head Up Ass

I have no affinity for meatheads. Those Archie Bunker described as, "Dead from the neck up." Managing Gold’s Gym in Saugus, I dealt with them everyday, asking them not to drop the dumbbells and placing heavy sanctions on grunting. Monopolizing weights in an unconventional manner, one of the strict rules, took finesse to enforce. At first I approached them with the chip on my shoulder fully exposed. My brother was a meathead, brawn fueled by searing anger. Meatheads are generally irrational, demand respect they don't give, and interpret reprimands as invitations to a fight. One guy called me a faggot after I asked him for the fourth time to stop slamming the 100lb dumbbells on our brand new rubber floors.

I tried to discard the chip and approach them without anger, which only begets more anger. I was nice, made sure no one else was around when I talked to them, and gave more chances than was warranted. I realized my prejudice against men acting like inflated boys stemmed from the fact that I suffered from the same malady.

On Tuesday I left work and traveled to Planet Fitness to work out. I became a member because my neighbors wanted a trainer and joining was easier than paying their daily workout fee. Planet Fitness is a bare bones club. No dumbbells over 60 lbs. No group exercise classes. Barely any trainers and the ones they do have make $10 an hour. They are so strict that they have what's called a Lunk Alarm, a siren that sounds whenever someone disobeys the golden rule: Don't act like a meathead.

I was in a dogshit mood. When I sat up after a set of bench presses with the fifties and placed them on the ground, they made a thud. The Lunk Alarm reverberated through the building. Someone behind the desk beckoned a floor trainer to inform me that dropping weights is not allowed. I was shocked, but acquiesced, nodding in acknowledgment before walking away in disgust.

I noticed the other trainers congregating, whispering about the bad attitude on the floor and what to do about it. I kept my head down, turn up my ipod, and reminded myself that thuds are open to interpretation. I did another set of presses, over exaggerating the softness with which I put them down. Then I went to the seated row where I felt someone's presence over my shoulder, "Excuse me." he said.

"Yeah." I responded.

"Take your headphones off, please." he ordered. I took one off. "We're not set up for circuit training. I need you to go and clean up those dumbbells."

I considered the list of possible responses flying at me from all directions, most notably, Don’t worry pal, someday you'll make more than ten dollars an hour, but I abstained and said, "OK."

Before I could do my set, he interrupted again and barked, "I need you to do it now."

I paused. My temples flared. I bit down hard. "Right away." I answered, and did what he asked.

For the rest of the workout he hawked me from the desk, waiting for me to defy another unspoken gym etiquette rule. I behaved, frothing at the mouth.

Before I left I approached the desk and said, "Sorry about all that," and walked away, realizing that the universe gave me a glimpse of just how raw my anger still is, and how when it clashes with someone else's it's a recipe for disaster.

I guess two raws don't make a right.