This is Why I Hate You, Gym

That's not fair. It's not the gym that's the enemy of the people, it's that arrogant, self-hating "professional" who specializes in manipulating the psychologies of innocent gym members, who works tirelessly to convince the average Joe-the-Plumber gym goer that she's an out of shape idiot in need of rescue (at the bargain price of $90 an hour!). Some of you might know him as The Rude Trainer.

Last night, the two of us were introduced.

One of the reasons I headed over to Park Slope Crunch (P.S. Crunch's motto is NO JUDGMENTS. We'll see about that) was to avail myself of its pull-up bars and chest dip thingies. Those exercises weren't on yesterday's schedule, but my flimsy bar stools and door frames have made it almost impossible to complete these moves to the fullest degree. So I was playing catch up.

When I saw the pull-up bar and its many buff users, I got shy. I circled it, made eye contact, played hard to get. Finally, I made my approach, and we were face to face. I was reading the directions when a young lady kindly demonstrated how to adjust the knee pads and weights. After she finished her reps, I climbed on and struggled through a set of eight. Still suspended, I sort of felt like I was getting the hang of things when a trainer came over and offered some "help."

Now, normally I interact with trainers as I would lions. Respect their place in the animal kingdom, but don't get too close. Whatever happens, do not make eye contact. Show no fear.


But over these last few weeks, I've been committed to learning as much as I can about my body; thus, I graciously accepted Rude Trainer's unsolicited advice.

His first bit of wisdom was the suggestion to roll my shoulders back. "Cool," I said. I suppose he took my friendly smile and further inquiries about the proper posture and grip to maintain while attempting an assisted push up as license to point out each and every one of my body's flaws, and of course, how He Alone could save me from a lifetime of bad posture, flabby arms, and saggy booty. Rude Trainer's barrage of "help" included the following comments:

1. "You're in okay shape, but your posture is disgusting."

2. "You have some definition in your arms, but it has to be better. You have to impress people when you have your book tour. We're an image conscious society, you know." REALLY, FOOL?

2. "And this, the booty... (he points to my now mini globes) is sagging. We need to get it back up."

3. "Are you Indian? You should have a beautiful body, like those Bollywood actresses!"

And here I had to wonder which Bollywood actresses he was referring to, because not all Bollywood bellies are created equal. Aficianados will notice a drastic difference between pre- and post-1999 Bollywood bodies. Here's one:



And here's another. Wonder if she does kung-fu sit-ups:



And the humiliation did not end there. Rude Trainer asked me to demonstrate some more moves so that he could give me some "tips" about posture. I know that I hunch. That my chin tends to jut forward, that my spine is curvy, and that my shoulders are a tight mess. However, even if I'd come into Crunch curled together like a shrimp, would that have given him the right to be such a douchebag?

Rude Trainer, as you might imagine, did not look like this (and no one says he has to, but let's just say he was FAR, FAR, FAR from Peaky):


But it does matter. Let he who is innocent cast the first frickin' stone! And doesn't he realize we live in an image conscious society? That children would rather play with kittens than turtles (this was his analogy, I sh**t you not!)?

His "help" continued to ooze of toxic snippets, and when I tried to assert all the progress I'd made on PCP (I had the workout printed out on a sheet of paper) he insisted that the exercises were "dangerous," that he wanted to "kill" my last trainer for not teaching me how to use the row machine correctly, and that yoga would not do anything for my posture.

Are you serious?

What pisses me off about that interaction the most was not what he said, but how I reacted. I wish I had excused myself from the lecture-attack and told him, politely, that his comments were degrading, unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. And that though I'm no businesswoman, I have the sneaking suspicion that INSULTING SOMEONE ISN'T THE BEST MARKETING PLAN.

Or is it?

Instead of actually interacting with his garbage, I fumed through my ab exercises and told the receptionist I wanted to cancel my membership.