“I’ve been laid off over six months now, live with my grand parents, have tattoos and a four year old boy. I’m a great catch for the next guy that comes along.”
This dripping sarcasm was said by H. who I was talking to last week. Actually, for the little, frail looking hipster woman she was, she had a better grasp of reality than most. She was right. When I found out she was living with her grand’s, I thought there was no way was I going to carry her around financially. I wasn’t about to be purchasing “good times,” laundry detergent, gasoline and the occasional winter coat for her kid.
She knew her polish is now worn off and can’t compete in the single arena with those with jobs.
What I’m stumbling across now, or running into more often, are people who are out of work. A lot more.
Unemployed. I’ve been there once. The thing about it is the incredible boredom that comes with having every day of the week off for months. I learned to clean the house, deep clean it, three times a month. I found myself painting, doing yard work and inventing inexpensive projects around the home to keep busy. Anything to have purpose for that week.
Also, you live in some sort of weird limbo even amongst your friends. You may be laid off due to no fault of your own and yet you feel “different” still. Your friends get up, work, have a goal, direction; even if it’s only for that day. While you get up and look out the window and reread the newspaper twice. You float.
Your occupation, without you knowing it really, is a huge part of who you are and at some levels, where you derive some of your pride and self esteem. Go without that work, even a chintzy job, and you’ll feel the loss.
Nowadays, I’m reminded of when I was out of work by all these new ones I keep running into. If I was out of work again, what would I do? Besides pumping out 20 resumes a week? I’d be cleaning the house, doing yard work, painting…
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
At the Gym Zoo
I joined a gym not too long ago from the helpful push of friend who was wishing to knock off a few pounds herself. My motivation for it is two fold. One, get my weight down to that range where it should be, and, to build up my health. I see too many patients in the field I work who are nearly awarded cripple status. I see the future and the future says to me: “You’re not going to get younger but OLDER.” I have no wish to end up like my Dad who had the World’s Greatest Beer Gut either.
But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.
Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.
*****
The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars
The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.
I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.
A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”
To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.
*****
The Moms.
This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.
It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.
I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.
*****
The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics
These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.
*****
The Staff
The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.
I did notice this however.
If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”
If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.
As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”
“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”
*****
And Lastly, The Guys Like Me
There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.
I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.
We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?
But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.
Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.
*****
The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars
The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.
I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.
A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”
To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.
*****
The Moms.
This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.
It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.
I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.
*****
The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics
These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.
*****
The Staff
The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.
I did notice this however.
If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”
If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.
As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”
“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”
*****
And Lastly, The Guys Like Me
There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.
I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.
We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Po Po
There have been instances where friends, coworkers and acquaintances who know me well enough have accused me of being judgmental, opinionated and…picky. It’s true…and I’ll tell you why.
After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?
So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.
I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”
She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.
“What’s a po po?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.
“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.
“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.
Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.
“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.
She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.
“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.
She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.
“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.
“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.
Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!
My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…
After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?
So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.
I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”
She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.
“What’s a po po?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.
“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.
“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.
Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.
“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.
She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.
“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.
She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.
“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.
“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.
Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!
My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…
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