For anonymity sake, let's say my coworker's name is Nicole. I've worked with her for a few months, and I know her as a female, as does everyone else in the office. She has very striking features, and it would be quite impossible to second-guess her gender.
Since working together, we've learned that we have quite a few things in common, and have become friends. She's been dating a guy for a while, and occasionally comes to my office to talk about things that may be frustrating her, or to just tell me about a cool new restaurant that they visited the other night.
Usual stuff.
So yesterday, she comes into my office with a you're-never-going-to-believe-this look on her face, and sits down on the other side of my desk.
She reminds me that she's going on a trip to Mexico in a few weeks, and this prompted her to get her first passport, which came in the mail a couple weeks ago.
She is very anxious for her trip, as anyone in their right mind would be with the last few months of weather we've had, and has started getting things together, making lists, etc.
So, she grabs her passport, which she hasn't really taken the time to look at since she received it, and starts to pencil in her current contact information on the front page.
She reads her demographic information and double checks the spelling and all that jazz, when she notices an "M" under the Sex/Sexe/Sexo heading.
Buzzzzzzzz.
So, she had just gotten off the phone with the passport office before coming to my office. She goes on to summarize her conversation with them, and it turns out that the social security office has her listed as a male as well.
So, she called her parents to ask them if there's anything she should know about her medical history.
Her mom then tells her that she actually remembers getting the hospital bill after she was born, and they had to dispute a few charges on the listing...including circumcision!
She is currently working with her birth county authorities with her birth certificate to ensure that she was "logged into the system" as a female, but she is really concerned...and honestly, she seems a little confused too. The social security and passport officials have requested that she send "proper documentation" that proves that she is, indeed, a female. She's called her doctor to fax her the latest demographic information from her last visit as documentation, and she's making a copy of her driver's license with says she's female as well.
Now, she's really concerned about using her current passport when going through customs. Both of us wondered why she should be concerned, as we don't really know if they could question anything. My justification as to why she'd be fine was whether they stop crossdressers coming through security because their ID says otherwise? I know they're resorting to considerable racial profiling in some cases of security checks, but gender profiling?
Anyway, it's a very unique story, and I feel privileged to be part of it so directly.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Why I hate gyms #3
Oblivious Loud Music Guy
The ".mp3 revolution" has made personal music enjoyment something that can be done so effortlessly and convenient. I love my .mp3 player. I'm nearing the upgrade stage actually; partially need-based as my battery no longer holds charge for longer than 90 minutes, but mostly want-based, as I just want to have hand-held Wifi...and more memory...and video capability. But that's another subject...
This revolution has also brought about societal behavior that I have found to be extremely annoying. Offenders can be found in pretty much any public area, particularly in public transportation venues. But I find the biggest offenders to be hanging out at the gym...hence this post. *shrug*
"These people" usually are walking around with their heads hanging low, usually watching their toes and nothing else. Often times, it seems like the person assumes you see that they're in their own little world while jamming to Lady GaGa and expect you to watch out for them as they barrel by. They usually don't hold the door for anyone, and they can often be spotted speaking louder than required at coffee shops while ordering lattes because they didn't bother to turn down (or off) their music.
Upon entering the locker room, they usually take care while undressing so as not to knock the earbuds out of their ears, because heaven-forbid they cut-off Fall Out Boy mid-emo-chorus riff. It's always worth a little "idiot smirk" to watch them realize that they don't have any pockets when their naked and they'll actually have to detach themselves from the power pack...at least until they find a towel to wrap around their waist/carry over their shoulder (see nakedness).
They'll bring their music into the steam room so everyone inside can listen to Lil Wayne shouting over muffled secondhand baselines.
I've yet to see anyone wear their music into the showers, but this little wonder may make my wish come true sooner rather than later.
Speaking of steam rooms...
The Hold-the-door-open guy
Yes. This may seem contradictory to my last point, but bear with me.
I get annoyed at people not holding the door for others (within reasonable distance anyway, off topic). I know it's just my mid-western upbringing speaking here, as I've heard of people elsewhere in the country complain about "overly nice people holding the door for everyone," but it's just something you do. Even for other guys.
But, there are two very unique exceptions to this rule: 1) certain public bathroom designs (which is, again, off topic); and 2) in the steam room/sauna.
It never fails. When I go into these digusting little holes, people feel the need to open the door completely open, and hold it there while they walk through, sometimes longer, causing instant drafts of cold air to enter the room, which completely cancels out the point of the room, which is to nearly boil your body...I believe. Some people hold the door for a few seconds even while shuffling their feet like they're walking across an ice rink.
And then there's the guys that are talking around the locker room, and one doesn't really feel like going into the steamer while the other does. They can't complete the sentence before going into the room, and can't wait a few minutes to continue their conversation, so one guy holds the door while standing in the doorway and talking to his buddy who is on his way to the shower.
Is it that hard to notice the rolls of steam flowing out the door as you hold it open? Or better yet, to realize that there are other people enjoying the scalding temperatures inside and would prefer the temperature stay constant rather than waiting another 5 minutes for the steamer to kick in again?
The "I'm going to cool down in the locker room" guy
This one is pretty self-explanatory, but locker rooms aren't usually known for being spacious. There's usually very little bench space, and if more than a few guys are sharing lockers in a row, you can almost guarantee that there will be some uncomfortable nudges.
So where else would you decide to go cool down right after a 5k run on the treadmill upstairs? These guys are usually wearing their earbuds (see above), are still out of breath, and are pouring sweat out of every possible gland near the surface of their skin. Some will stand and stretch their legs using the limited bench space after opening their locker. Some will just sit near their locker, staring at the floor while trying to catch their breath. Some will slowly begin taking off their sweaty clothes, spreading them out nicely on the floor around their locker (which might be kind of smart now that I think about it; kind of like a physical barrier keeping other naked guys at bay...hmmm) Some will stand in front of the mirror and begin to shower...using the sink.
Even after a cool down upstairs on a mat (in the labeled stretching area of the gym), I still continue sweating after going into the locker room. It's always a few degrees warmer, and it's got to be over 90% humidity in there, so it'd be like cooling down on a beach in the Bahamas.
I do know that some people find comfort in rubbing up against other sweaty, naked human beings, but a public locker room doesn't seem like the proper venue for that activity.
Except for some movies I guess...
The ".mp3 revolution" has made personal music enjoyment something that can be done so effortlessly and convenient. I love my .mp3 player. I'm nearing the upgrade stage actually; partially need-based as my battery no longer holds charge for longer than 90 minutes, but mostly want-based, as I just want to have hand-held Wifi...and more memory...and video capability. But that's another subject...
This revolution has also brought about societal behavior that I have found to be extremely annoying. Offenders can be found in pretty much any public area, particularly in public transportation venues. But I find the biggest offenders to be hanging out at the gym...hence this post. *shrug*
"These people" usually are walking around with their heads hanging low, usually watching their toes and nothing else. Often times, it seems like the person assumes you see that they're in their own little world while jamming to Lady GaGa and expect you to watch out for them as they barrel by. They usually don't hold the door for anyone, and they can often be spotted speaking louder than required at coffee shops while ordering lattes because they didn't bother to turn down (or off) their music.
Upon entering the locker room, they usually take care while undressing so as not to knock the earbuds out of their ears, because heaven-forbid they cut-off Fall Out Boy mid-emo-chorus riff. It's always worth a little "idiot smirk" to watch them realize that they don't have any pockets when their naked and they'll actually have to detach themselves from the power pack...at least until they find a towel to wrap around their waist/carry over their shoulder (see nakedness).
They'll bring their music into the steam room so everyone inside can listen to Lil Wayne shouting over muffled secondhand baselines.
I've yet to see anyone wear their music into the showers, but this little wonder may make my wish come true sooner rather than later.
Speaking of steam rooms...
The Hold-the-door-open guy
Yes. This may seem contradictory to my last point, but bear with me.
I get annoyed at people not holding the door for others (within reasonable distance anyway, off topic). I know it's just my mid-western upbringing speaking here, as I've heard of people elsewhere in the country complain about "overly nice people holding the door for everyone," but it's just something you do. Even for other guys.
But, there are two very unique exceptions to this rule: 1) certain public bathroom designs (which is, again, off topic); and 2) in the steam room/sauna.
It never fails. When I go into these digusting little holes, people feel the need to open the door completely open, and hold it there while they walk through, sometimes longer, causing instant drafts of cold air to enter the room, which completely cancels out the point of the room, which is to nearly boil your body...I believe. Some people hold the door for a few seconds even while shuffling their feet like they're walking across an ice rink.
And then there's the guys that are talking around the locker room, and one doesn't really feel like going into the steamer while the other does. They can't complete the sentence before going into the room, and can't wait a few minutes to continue their conversation, so one guy holds the door while standing in the doorway and talking to his buddy who is on his way to the shower.
Is it that hard to notice the rolls of steam flowing out the door as you hold it open? Or better yet, to realize that there are other people enjoying the scalding temperatures inside and would prefer the temperature stay constant rather than waiting another 5 minutes for the steamer to kick in again?
The "I'm going to cool down in the locker room" guy
This one is pretty self-explanatory, but locker rooms aren't usually known for being spacious. There's usually very little bench space, and if more than a few guys are sharing lockers in a row, you can almost guarantee that there will be some uncomfortable nudges.
So where else would you decide to go cool down right after a 5k run on the treadmill upstairs? These guys are usually wearing their earbuds (see above), are still out of breath, and are pouring sweat out of every possible gland near the surface of their skin. Some will stand and stretch their legs using the limited bench space after opening their locker. Some will just sit near their locker, staring at the floor while trying to catch their breath. Some will slowly begin taking off their sweaty clothes, spreading them out nicely on the floor around their locker (which might be kind of smart now that I think about it; kind of like a physical barrier keeping other naked guys at bay...hmmm) Some will stand in front of the mirror and begin to shower...using the sink.
Even after a cool down upstairs on a mat (in the labeled stretching area of the gym), I still continue sweating after going into the locker room. It's always a few degrees warmer, and it's got to be over 90% humidity in there, so it'd be like cooling down on a beach in the Bahamas.
I do know that some people find comfort in rubbing up against other sweaty, naked human beings, but a public locker room doesn't seem like the proper venue for that activity.
Except for some movies I guess...
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Why I hate gyms #2
A few more visits to the gym, and a lot more material:
Random Conversation Guy
Imagine walking back from the shower: towel wrapped around your waist, one hand holding your towel and the other holding your locker key. As you walk up to your locker, dodging a couple other guys that are in various stages of dressing/undressing, you insert your key into the lock and open your locker. As you open your locker, the guy on the bench who's locker is open directly next to you says loud enough to hear but not quite loud enough as a conversation starter,
"Oh man, my feet feel like I ran a marathon."
Unsure of whether he's talking directly to you, you assume he's not and that he's actually continuing a conversation with the guy on the other side of him.
"I really need to get new shoes. There's at least 500 miles on these since last year."
Suspecting, you peek over your shoulder to watch for a response from the other guy.
Nothing.
Is he talking to himself? Or worse, to me?
As you continue to peek over, you accidentally make eye contact with him, as he was peeking over his shoulder waiting for a response from anyone, at which point the door opens for a direct conversation with said respondee...aka: a lucky soul...aka: me.
I give him a brief acknowledging nod and smirk, and look right back down to my underwear which has successfully rolled up into a ball as I tried to hurriedly pull them up my legs after dropping my towel.
He apparently takes it as a green light.
Without so much as an "Oh yeah?!" and a couple "Really?!" remarks from me, he goes on for what seemed like 25 minutes about everything from his favorite brands of running and walking shoes over the past 3 years, to the flavor of power bar he had for his last three different types of workouts and why he chose them due to their varying nutritional content, to his soon to be expanding options on his current Minnesota Twins season tickets (depending on the future of his currently booming personal economic choices).
Throughout the conversation (*can you call it that if only one person is spewing a run-on sentence?) I made very little eye contact, and dressed quite rapidly. I tried to not seem rude, but after taking out my gym bag and putting on my jacket, it was pretty apparent that I was ready to bid him adieu.
Not apparent to him though, as his sentence would never end. There, literally, was not a single entrance point in his speech for me to say "Well, have a nice day." It actually took me a few back-steps for him to get the point that I was ready to go home and that I didn't want to hear about the way he haggled down the Jiffy Lube across the street during his last tune-up.
Mind you through nearly the entire "conversation," he was standing straight up, in whitey tighties and black dress socks, and applying lotion all over his body...repeatedly in some areas.
There are so many people that use the gym as a place to socialize; to meet new people; to network. Just make a lap around the free weight area of the gym sometime and watch the number of people with their arms folded or leaning against a rack that are just talking. It's not these people that I'm ranting about though. These people still annoy me, but just a little, and only if I'm waiting to use the equipment that they're leaning on.
It's the people that socialize with random, naked, usually sweaty strangers in a cramped, smelly, humid space that I usually deem as a private area, and an area where my space bubble is a little bit bigger.
I don't want a complete stranger within 3 feet of me, and facing my direction trying to talk about digestive issues and nauseating energy bars while I try to get dressed in front of them. I especially don't want people bringing up their "very favorable economic statures" while I'm in one of the most vulnerable positions possible for judgment, and I don't mean with my latest ATM balance receipt hanging out of my pocket. I mean being trapped in a wound up underwear beartrap at your knees trying to unwind them with one hand and balance with the other hand on the nearby lockers so you don't plant your bare ass on the naked guy's lap behind you.
It's very basic etiquette, learned way back in junior high at your first day of gym class where you need to change in front of your classmates before class, many of which you aren't really true "friends" with, that you don't make eye contact with others while they're naked, and you give them their space until they're done changing. If there's room on the other side of the bench, you grab your stuff out of your locker and change on that side, only returning when all genitalia are re-covered appropriately by both parties and neither are in a precarious position which could cause unfavorable sight lines. Kind of like going to dinner and sitting in a booth. You wouldn't sit on the same side of the table if both sides are open; why would you both change on one cramped side of the bench when there is a completely open side?
Just because I share an interest with you (staying fit by going to a gym) doesn't mean I want to talk about it. I go to the gym as a sanctuary. To blow off steam from work. To focus on sweating and muscle burning and not falling off the treadmill. And finally, to clean up and get home.
If doing a group fitness class, then talking would be perfectly acceptable as long as I'm not ready to blow chunks. We're both in a more specific setting and are sharing an activity. And it has the word "group" in it, indicating that you aren't alone and are supposed to train together.
No where in the tiled swamp called a locker room do I see the word "group" or "team." I want to just go in, clean up, and get out with the lowest number of delays as possible. I don't want to hang out in here, mainly due to post #1 of this series.
And, if you want to talk to someone, at least let them talk back to you. Learn how to use periods in conversation.
At least commas. Commas are good.
Random Conversation Guy
Imagine walking back from the shower: towel wrapped around your waist, one hand holding your towel and the other holding your locker key. As you walk up to your locker, dodging a couple other guys that are in various stages of dressing/undressing, you insert your key into the lock and open your locker. As you open your locker, the guy on the bench who's locker is open directly next to you says loud enough to hear but not quite loud enough as a conversation starter,
"Oh man, my feet feel like I ran a marathon."
Unsure of whether he's talking directly to you, you assume he's not and that he's actually continuing a conversation with the guy on the other side of him.
"I really need to get new shoes. There's at least 500 miles on these since last year."
Suspecting, you peek over your shoulder to watch for a response from the other guy.
Nothing.
Is he talking to himself? Or worse, to me?
As you continue to peek over, you accidentally make eye contact with him, as he was peeking over his shoulder waiting for a response from anyone, at which point the door opens for a direct conversation with said respondee...aka: a lucky soul...aka: me.
I give him a brief acknowledging nod and smirk, and look right back down to my underwear which has successfully rolled up into a ball as I tried to hurriedly pull them up my legs after dropping my towel.
He apparently takes it as a green light.
Without so much as an "Oh yeah?!" and a couple "Really?!" remarks from me, he goes on for what seemed like 25 minutes about everything from his favorite brands of running and walking shoes over the past 3 years, to the flavor of power bar he had for his last three different types of workouts and why he chose them due to their varying nutritional content, to his soon to be expanding options on his current Minnesota Twins season tickets (depending on the future of his currently booming personal economic choices).
Throughout the conversation (*can you call it that if only one person is spewing a run-on sentence?) I made very little eye contact, and dressed quite rapidly. I tried to not seem rude, but after taking out my gym bag and putting on my jacket, it was pretty apparent that I was ready to bid him adieu.
Not apparent to him though, as his sentence would never end. There, literally, was not a single entrance point in his speech for me to say "Well, have a nice day." It actually took me a few back-steps for him to get the point that I was ready to go home and that I didn't want to hear about the way he haggled down the Jiffy Lube across the street during his last tune-up.
Mind you through nearly the entire "conversation," he was standing straight up, in whitey tighties and black dress socks, and applying lotion all over his body...repeatedly in some areas.
There are so many people that use the gym as a place to socialize; to meet new people; to network. Just make a lap around the free weight area of the gym sometime and watch the number of people with their arms folded or leaning against a rack that are just talking. It's not these people that I'm ranting about though. These people still annoy me, but just a little, and only if I'm waiting to use the equipment that they're leaning on.
It's the people that socialize with random, naked, usually sweaty strangers in a cramped, smelly, humid space that I usually deem as a private area, and an area where my space bubble is a little bit bigger.
I don't want a complete stranger within 3 feet of me, and facing my direction trying to talk about digestive issues and nauseating energy bars while I try to get dressed in front of them. I especially don't want people bringing up their "very favorable economic statures" while I'm in one of the most vulnerable positions possible for judgment, and I don't mean with my latest ATM balance receipt hanging out of my pocket. I mean being trapped in a wound up underwear beartrap at your knees trying to unwind them with one hand and balance with the other hand on the nearby lockers so you don't plant your bare ass on the naked guy's lap behind you.
It's very basic etiquette, learned way back in junior high at your first day of gym class where you need to change in front of your classmates before class, many of which you aren't really true "friends" with, that you don't make eye contact with others while they're naked, and you give them their space until they're done changing. If there's room on the other side of the bench, you grab your stuff out of your locker and change on that side, only returning when all genitalia are re-covered appropriately by both parties and neither are in a precarious position which could cause unfavorable sight lines. Kind of like going to dinner and sitting in a booth. You wouldn't sit on the same side of the table if both sides are open; why would you both change on one cramped side of the bench when there is a completely open side?
Just because I share an interest with you (staying fit by going to a gym) doesn't mean I want to talk about it. I go to the gym as a sanctuary. To blow off steam from work. To focus on sweating and muscle burning and not falling off the treadmill. And finally, to clean up and get home.
If doing a group fitness class, then talking would be perfectly acceptable as long as I'm not ready to blow chunks. We're both in a more specific setting and are sharing an activity. And it has the word "group" in it, indicating that you aren't alone and are supposed to train together.
No where in the tiled swamp called a locker room do I see the word "group" or "team." I want to just go in, clean up, and get out with the lowest number of delays as possible. I don't want to hang out in here, mainly due to post #1 of this series.
And, if you want to talk to someone, at least let them talk back to you. Learn how to use periods in conversation.
At least commas. Commas are good.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Why I hate gyms #1
As I said in my more focused blog, I joined a gym at the start of this year.
I made a promise to myself about 3 years ago that I'd never waste money on a gym membership again. At the time, my son had just come into this world, I had just discovered that it is much more enjoyable to run outdoors rather than on a conveyor belt, and I figured that I no longer needed to work on my max bench as I no longer had a need to lift 200+ pounds above my head. In fact, I'm pretty sure I never had that need.
So, I cancelled my membership and began building my own home gym. I bought a decent adjustable open bench, and a set of adjustable dumbells. I switched my workouts into a high rep, low weight auxiliary muscle focused lifting regimen, and plyometric based routine consisting of body movement exercises like push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, etc.
To this day, I'm still progressing in my abilities in these workouts, and find new twists and bends to add to the old stand-bys in fitness articles to keep them interesting, and I have no plans of rejoining the muscleheads in the iron corner of the gym.
I joined the gym again, mainly to use the pool. I started swimming last year, and went to a municipal facility that charged daily admission. After doing simple math, I figured that if I was going to pay for swimming a couple times a week, I might as well spend the same amount of money on a more inclusive gym.
Don't get me wrong; I love having the membership back. I spent countless hours in the gym through HS and college, and in my first year as a professional office monkey. Hours of stress relief and focused training, and the ability to turn on the music and tune out everything and everybody else around you for an hour or two; it was my little hideaway...that I shared with several thousand other people.
So, three weeks ago I found myself sitting in a little office soaking in the whole spiel from the "membership liason" at the local fitness center chain. I grabbed a few of the group fitness schedules, and headed into the locker room for my first gym workout in 3 years.
But as soon as I turned the corner and passed the full length mirror at the entrance, my mental accountant of daily annoyances immediately starting making tick marks all over my list.
I'm going to try to post these as a series, as I've only been back in the gym for a couple weeks, and I need time to fully digest the experience again before totally spilling my guts.
And I need to post more often around here.
So here goes, in no particular order:
Nakedness. I know, it's a doozy. Notice that I don't say nudity, as I feel nudity is a good kind of naked (if you feel there is a good kind of naked). Nakedness is the step child of nudity. Seinfeld portrayed nakedness, or bad naked, very well in the "The Apology," But I want to expand on his definition.
As I turn the corner, I'm immediately greeted with three grown men walking directly towards me with their towels over their shoulders and nothing else covering their bodies but gray hair.
Why on earth do people feel the need to walk around completely naked in such a public place?
I am a big proponent of sleeping naked. I almost hate wearing clothes while sleeping. If I do wear clothes, it's not much more than underwear. I shower naked, and usually shave and brush my teeth naked in the morning. But that's with the door shut, and alone. I wrap a towel around my waist (although, loosely usually) around my house, and I surely wear a towel around the locker room at the gym.
Why?
I'm not shy, nor do I feel inferior displaying everything for the world to see. But, because the gym is usually busy at the times of day I go, there are usually men sitting down tying shoes or benches to dodge or many other obstacles to overcome while navigating around the room. While I'm tying my shoes, the last place I want to be is at eye level with another man's uncovered junk. This has nothing to do with homophobia, but rather the simple fact that, as Elaine so eloquently put, "it's ugly."
Even worse, would be to look up and have a full moon staring you in the face as he is unlocking his locker.
So I try to lead by example and non-chalantly wrap a towel around my waist, and remove it only to shower and dry off.
But then there's the guy that's brushing his teeth at the sink...with one leg up on the counter. This feat has been observed on more than one occasion at different facilities. Is this a natural urge that I'm missing out on? Is it easier to reach the back side of your molars with one leg at waist level and the whole dark region behind your scrotum exposed for all to see not once, but also a second time in the mirror ahead of you? I don't get it?!
Now the steam room; it might as well be called Vietnam because so many guys just throw every rule of society out the window once that steamy glass door closes. First of all, it's clearly stated on the door, just above the handle, that everyone must have a towel, short, or suit on while taking a steam. You can't miss it. But I have yet to take a steam and not have someone stroll in the buff and plop their sweaty ass down on the tile bench that hundreds of other more sanitary people sit down on. Bodily gases are expensed at will, and passed off as it's just natural to let it go. Shaving? Sure! Why not? It's warm and wet, right? Perfect conditions to get rid of that unwanted pubic hair. It will eventually get pulled out of the drain, and nobody is walking barefoot, right?
Walk up to the urinal, what's the first thing that comes to your mind? Is it to drop your towel, spread your legs so as to avoid the urine drips directly below, and then let out a little sigh of relief as you begin urinating? It is?! Oh, I must be the only one that doesn't have this urge.
And finally, the guy that feels it's completely legitimate to bend over in the shower and take a handful of soap and vigorously scrub his crack while facing sideways in the common shower room. It's usually the same guy that feels the need to use half of the soap dispenser on one shower, grabbing 5 or 6 squirts of soap for every few square inches of skin...and carries his own manly colored loofa into the shower too.
Although the majority of the room is covered in soap residue and water, it has to be one of the most unsanitary public places on earth. I don't know how more people don't come down with more communicable diseases in these places.
I have many more observations and rants about the lack of modesty in these odd worlds of fitness centers.
Hopefully I have some blogworthy encounters tonight at the pool.
Talk about harboring bacteria...
I made a promise to myself about 3 years ago that I'd never waste money on a gym membership again. At the time, my son had just come into this world, I had just discovered that it is much more enjoyable to run outdoors rather than on a conveyor belt, and I figured that I no longer needed to work on my max bench as I no longer had a need to lift 200+ pounds above my head. In fact, I'm pretty sure I never had that need.
So, I cancelled my membership and began building my own home gym. I bought a decent adjustable open bench, and a set of adjustable dumbells. I switched my workouts into a high rep, low weight auxiliary muscle focused lifting regimen, and plyometric based routine consisting of body movement exercises like push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, etc.
To this day, I'm still progressing in my abilities in these workouts, and find new twists and bends to add to the old stand-bys in fitness articles to keep them interesting, and I have no plans of rejoining the muscleheads in the iron corner of the gym.
I joined the gym again, mainly to use the pool. I started swimming last year, and went to a municipal facility that charged daily admission. After doing simple math, I figured that if I was going to pay for swimming a couple times a week, I might as well spend the same amount of money on a more inclusive gym.
Don't get me wrong; I love having the membership back. I spent countless hours in the gym through HS and college, and in my first year as a professional office monkey. Hours of stress relief and focused training, and the ability to turn on the music and tune out everything and everybody else around you for an hour or two; it was my little hideaway...that I shared with several thousand other people.
So, three weeks ago I found myself sitting in a little office soaking in the whole spiel from the "membership liason" at the local fitness center chain. I grabbed a few of the group fitness schedules, and headed into the locker room for my first gym workout in 3 years.
But as soon as I turned the corner and passed the full length mirror at the entrance, my mental accountant of daily annoyances immediately starting making tick marks all over my list.
I'm going to try to post these as a series, as I've only been back in the gym for a couple weeks, and I need time to fully digest the experience again before totally spilling my guts.
And I need to post more often around here.
So here goes, in no particular order:
Nakedness. I know, it's a doozy. Notice that I don't say nudity, as I feel nudity is a good kind of naked (if you feel there is a good kind of naked). Nakedness is the step child of nudity. Seinfeld portrayed nakedness, or bad naked, very well in the "The Apology," But I want to expand on his definition.
As I turn the corner, I'm immediately greeted with three grown men walking directly towards me with their towels over their shoulders and nothing else covering their bodies but gray hair.
Why on earth do people feel the need to walk around completely naked in such a public place?
I am a big proponent of sleeping naked. I almost hate wearing clothes while sleeping. If I do wear clothes, it's not much more than underwear. I shower naked, and usually shave and brush my teeth naked in the morning. But that's with the door shut, and alone. I wrap a towel around my waist (although, loosely usually) around my house, and I surely wear a towel around the locker room at the gym.
Why?
I'm not shy, nor do I feel inferior displaying everything for the world to see. But, because the gym is usually busy at the times of day I go, there are usually men sitting down tying shoes or benches to dodge or many other obstacles to overcome while navigating around the room. While I'm tying my shoes, the last place I want to be is at eye level with another man's uncovered junk. This has nothing to do with homophobia, but rather the simple fact that, as Elaine so eloquently put, "it's ugly."
Even worse, would be to look up and have a full moon staring you in the face as he is unlocking his locker.
So I try to lead by example and non-chalantly wrap a towel around my waist, and remove it only to shower and dry off.
But then there's the guy that's brushing his teeth at the sink...with one leg up on the counter. This feat has been observed on more than one occasion at different facilities. Is this a natural urge that I'm missing out on? Is it easier to reach the back side of your molars with one leg at waist level and the whole dark region behind your scrotum exposed for all to see not once, but also a second time in the mirror ahead of you? I don't get it?!
Now the steam room; it might as well be called Vietnam because so many guys just throw every rule of society out the window once that steamy glass door closes. First of all, it's clearly stated on the door, just above the handle, that everyone must have a towel, short, or suit on while taking a steam. You can't miss it. But I have yet to take a steam and not have someone stroll in the buff and plop their sweaty ass down on the tile bench that hundreds of other more sanitary people sit down on. Bodily gases are expensed at will, and passed off as it's just natural to let it go. Shaving? Sure! Why not? It's warm and wet, right? Perfect conditions to get rid of that unwanted pubic hair. It will eventually get pulled out of the drain, and nobody is walking barefoot, right?
Walk up to the urinal, what's the first thing that comes to your mind? Is it to drop your towel, spread your legs so as to avoid the urine drips directly below, and then let out a little sigh of relief as you begin urinating? It is?! Oh, I must be the only one that doesn't have this urge.
And finally, the guy that feels it's completely legitimate to bend over in the shower and take a handful of soap and vigorously scrub his crack while facing sideways in the common shower room. It's usually the same guy that feels the need to use half of the soap dispenser on one shower, grabbing 5 or 6 squirts of soap for every few square inches of skin...and carries his own manly colored loofa into the shower too.
Although the majority of the room is covered in soap residue and water, it has to be one of the most unsanitary public places on earth. I don't know how more people don't come down with more communicable diseases in these places.
I have many more observations and rants about the lack of modesty in these odd worlds of fitness centers.
Hopefully I have some blogworthy encounters tonight at the pool.
Talk about harboring bacteria...
Friday, December 05, 2008
Uh Counting
All first year students at my college alma mater are (well, were) required to take a year-long symposium class. The purpose: teach us how to write and speak for the next four years, and hopefully after we graduate. There were different "topics" or "genres" of symposiums that everyone could choose from when registering for classes, created in an attempt to allow students to find something related to their intended major. It was the only class where everyone that was in the first semester was guaranteed to be in the same class during the second semester, so the class of 13 students really got to know each other after a year-long class, during what is usually known as a major personal identification creation year at college.
Although the topics of the symposiums differed, the core assignments and grading systems were identical. Each semester had one large presentation/report project, that included a week of showing our professor new references for the report, group trips to the library to learn how to find information (using real books, not Wikipedia or Urban Dictionary), practicing the presentation, drafting several versions of the report, and visiting the campus writing department for assistance; basically every OCD aspect involved in writing a really good report was forced down our throat and we were graded on how well we did each step. Grading was actually emphasized on the process of writing rather than the final product itself.
I'm not writing this to brag about my writing or speaking skills though. You will not see much of the MLA format in any of my posts, and I could really care less about how to properly reference a periodical at the end of my report. Hyperlinking is awesome.
Something that was drilled into our heads during the speech presentation portions of the class, though, continues to haunt me in my everyday professional life. While practicing and presenting our final presentation, our public speaking skills were dissected by our classmates, then read back to us afterwards. It was very humbling, and embarrassing, but also very, very informative. Each classmate was assigned to record certain habits that you have while presenting:
Looking at the audience.
Shuffling your feet.
Biting your lip.
Posture.
Your wardrobe.
Fidgeting.
I still do this mentally during presentations at work or during conferences. It's a terrible habit, and I usually leave conferences that aren't particularly applicable to what I do with nothing but criticisms on the speakers' public speaking habits, rather than being able to discuss any substance of the presentation itself.
One mannerism in particular haunts me the most though: the "Uh/Um" counter. To this day, if anyone mutters just one "Uh" or "Um" during their speech, I instantly mark it down on the closest piece of paper.
I'm not sure what drives me more insane; the Uh's and Um's coming from the speaker, or the fact that I can't look past them and focus solely on them. It's like hearing a ceiling fan click at every rotation, and as soon as you realize it and start to listen to it, you can't tune it out and it drives you batty. The ticking of clocks is the same way. I've actually disarmed clocks from their batteries/electrical supply in public places due to incessant ticking.
During the last year or two, I have been able to suppress the urge to physically mark each Uh and Um down, but I still count mentally, marking the start time on my watch and counting for a minute. Then using that number and averaging it out over the duration of the speech to get a rough estimate of the number of stalls the speaker input into their speech. I've sometimes resorted to the manual heart rate method of counting for 6 seconds, then multiplying by 10 to get the bpm (upm in this case), but if the speaker is an Uh Extender, meaning they say "Uhhhhh" rather than "Uh," then the results are skewed because just one "Uhhhhh" can take a second or two, not leaving enough time for another "Uhhhhh."
It's very scientific. Trust me.
So, yesterday, we had a MD come into our office to present to us research that he's been doing for a few years. His presentation was a voluntary portion of his job interview actually, so it was a rather unorthodox way of saying I want the job. The effectiveness is yet to be determined, as he actually hasn't been offered the job yet, but when my manager comes to me asking what I thought of the presentation, this is all I can say:
Yep. The presentation was littered with them. And not just the occasional-beer-bottle-in-the-ditch litter. We're talking WALL-E littered.
Note the start and finish times at the top. His speech wasn't just 4 minutes and 40 seconds long. I was actually intrigued with his presentation, and thought I was making progress with my...condition. But after he lost me on a graphic slide, I instantly started to focus on his slightly southern US drawl during his extended, and sometimes medially inserted Uhhs. I tried so hard to resist the tick marks, but finally gave in, checked my watch, and began the Uh seismograph.
86 Uhhs in 4 minutes and 40 seconds. It has to be a record. That's one "Uhh" every 3.25 seconds. When considering that each Uhh, on average, lasted about a half a second to just under one second (for practical purposes, we'll say 3/4 of a second), he only presented actual substance for about 77 to 85 percent of his time slot. Take away the dead air that occurred every time he tried switching slides (another 2 to 3 seconds per slide, for about 20 slides), and that's another minute out of his presentation that could have been filled with information. His presentation started at approximately 2:03, and the Q and A portion started at 2:42, giving him 39 minutes of presenting time. Take away the Uhhs, slide switches, and an occasional reading mishap, one can end up with about 28 minutes of actual presentation.
Over 1/4 of his presentation was lost to all of us. Time which we'll never get back.
And time where he might have wished he had spent preparing a presentation that was actually applicable to what we are researching at our company.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
As if I make time for this one...
I've started another blog. I've been neglecting this one for a long time, I know, but I don't really have a direction for it yet.
I'm one of those people that start a blog entry, get halfway through it then realize it's going in a completely different direction than I intended. I then try to hack out the irrelevant portions, which then renders it a piece of crap, become overly self-concious of it, then hit delete before I publish.
I created Addictive Exertion to give myself a place to talk about one topic in particular, and want to reserve this space for everything else I feel like sharing. I guess we'll see where I spend more time, but I think one will encourage the other, and they'll mesh smoothly.
If not, then I'm just wasting more infinite cyberspace.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
So I got the bike…now what?!
Day 1 with the bike. I was dying to ride, but I had this overwhelming sense if inadequacy that really kept me down the in the basement just looking at the parts, trying to name them in my head, and peeling off the factory spec and advertising stickers. Occasionally, I’d sit on it with one arm propping me against the wall. After about 30 seconds of sitting, I figured out what my first investment must be.
Bike shorts.
I knew this was part of the deal of buying a road bike and “getting serious” about the sport, but still, walking into the bike shop and bee-lining straight for the spandex racks gave me immediate flashbacks to the days of tagging along while shopping for leotards for my sister’s upcoming gymnastics competition. Just the thought of donning Lycra as my under and outer layer, displaying the silhouette of my groinal region in a shiny black back drop for all the world to see while whistling around the bike trails and roads immediately caused me to stray from the direct path and towards the jerseys instead.
Short sleeve jerseys. Long sleeve jerseys. No sleeve jerseys. ¼ zip. ½ zip. Full zip. Race cut. Club cut. 360 degree reflective. The brighter the better it seemed, so I grabbed a yellow one and pulled it over my t-shirt. Luckily, a salesperson noticed me struggling in the corner of the store, obviously unaware of what a jersey should look like on my body. Second only to the guy who sold my bike to me, this guy was the friendliest bike shop guy I’ve met yet. I don’t want to stereotype, but in my short experience thus far, I’ve observed three kinds of bike shop salesmen (that are definitely not equally dispersed among bike shops):
1) the scruffy guy wearing a bandana, camouflage shorts and casual athletic shoes with pedal cleats recessed into the soles so he can clip-in to his fully-suspended mountain bike at anytime and ride through a muddy single-track trail to the closest climbing wall to hang with his stoner buddies;
2) the clean cut skinny guy with a polo shirt, slightly shorter than average khaki shorts that conveniently expose his massively toned quads and calves, both of which have been shaved recently, who always manages to fit in at least one reference to his last century ride or triathlon just to prove to you he is more experienced than you will ever be and could probably blow by you going up hill in a fixed gear track bike;
3) the guy that drives to the store, even though he lives two blocks away, maybe owns a bike or two but is really just a casual rider and is trying to make a buck or two at a sales job that’s close to home.
The guy approaching me was definitely number three, and even admitted it throughout his “sales pitch.” At one point in the conversation he actually joked about the wrenchers in back, noting that one of them broke his collar bone two months ago while trail riding with some buddies, but now tells customers that the sling is helping him recover from a really crazy crash at this downhill racing track competition. He nailed this jump and landed a little sideways and flew over his handlebars, but he wasn’t sure exactly because he couldn’t remember much of it once he came to. In reality, he was just going too fast through the woods in a city park a few blocks away and his handlebar caught a branch, spinning him off the bike and causing him to simply fall on his side. He actually rode his bike home and his mom drove him to the ER that night. What a bad ass.
The guy helps me figure out the fit of a jersey, which really is just what is comfortable to you when sitting on the bike. The fact that I’m between sizes in everything is accentuated during my jersey fitting, ranging between Medium and Large. I end up choosing a white and black, short-sleeved Large jersey. It’s snug where I want it to be, has a few pockets on the back (pretty much standard on cycling jerseys) and doesn’t ride up over my waist when bending over, which is the ultimate test when trying them on, I learn.
He then asked me if I wanted to try on some shorts. I give him the deer in the headlights look, at which point he chuckled and confirmed my freshness to the sport. He said they’re pretty straightforward in fit. He showed me the pad in the crotch (called the chamois, or “shammy”) and explained its significance (which really didn’t need explanation, as the padded shorts were the primary reason for my trip to the store in the first place). Then explained that typically, shorts with more panels (or pieces of material making up the shorts) tend to fit and stay in one place better than shorts with fewer panels. I, staying with my proclaimed theme of “mid-entry level,” go with a mid-range priced pair of black shorts, and head towards the register.
The day of my bike purchase, the bike dealer gave me a few pointers as I was signing the paperwork, and his primary concern for me was that the tires needed to be filled with air to the correct pressure on a very regular basis (typically before every ride) in order to maintain durability, and proper handling. He said that a firm tire not only gave you safety, but really made a difference in speed and handling. He showed me a few pump models he had on the wall, but I was still somewhat shell-shocked by the check I just wrote out and didn’t feel like spending any more money that day. He assured me that if there’s one thing I needed, it was a pump.
Conveniently, there were some nice floor pumps by the register of this new store that were on sale. As well as some tire levers (two or three plastic pry bars, essentially, used to change the tire), spare tubes (self-explanatory), and saddle-bags (1. road bike seats are not called “seats, they’re “saddles;” 2. saddle bags are the little bags hanging off the bottom of the saddle that hold your portable tools should you blow a tire on the trails while you’re miles from home). After hitting the little devil off of my left shoulder, I assertively said “Yes” when the sales guy asked if that was all I needed.
I paid no attention to the total price and immediately shoved the receipt deep into my wallet so I wouldn’t find it until my checking account balancing act at the end of the month (which consists of me going online to make sure my balance is positive and looking for any possible fraudulent charges from Argentina or something). I go home, leaving my purchases in the trunk until my wife took off for work (she works nights). As soon as the garage door shut after her leaving, I went and grabbed my toys and modeled my spandex tuxedo to myself in the bathroom. I couldn’t believe it. I now looked like one of them, except with skinnier thighs and calves and a little bit of a gut pushing my tight jersey out (which I didn’t notice in the store, or anytime before that night). That first night in spandex was definitely eye opening. I’ve never checked myself out as much as I did that night. I had a lot of work to do to make it past the newbie level. There wasn’t any form-fitting jersey or carbon fiber bike out there that was going to make me intimidate anyone on the starting line. I looked scared. I actually felt nervous. I haven’t even set my butt on the bike seriously yet.
I peeled off the lycra, allowing my body expand back to its normal atmospheric pressure. I sit on the edge of my bed while tearing the tags off everything. I then remember what the sales guy told me as I was leaving.
“Just get out and start putting some miles on and you’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Probably the best advice I’ve gotten yet in this new adventure.
Bike shorts.
I knew this was part of the deal of buying a road bike and “getting serious” about the sport, but still, walking into the bike shop and bee-lining straight for the spandex racks gave me immediate flashbacks to the days of tagging along while shopping for leotards for my sister’s upcoming gymnastics competition. Just the thought of donning Lycra as my under and outer layer, displaying the silhouette of my groinal region in a shiny black back drop for all the world to see while whistling around the bike trails and roads immediately caused me to stray from the direct path and towards the jerseys instead.
Short sleeve jerseys. Long sleeve jerseys. No sleeve jerseys. ¼ zip. ½ zip. Full zip. Race cut. Club cut. 360 degree reflective. The brighter the better it seemed, so I grabbed a yellow one and pulled it over my t-shirt. Luckily, a salesperson noticed me struggling in the corner of the store, obviously unaware of what a jersey should look like on my body. Second only to the guy who sold my bike to me, this guy was the friendliest bike shop guy I’ve met yet. I don’t want to stereotype, but in my short experience thus far, I’ve observed three kinds of bike shop salesmen (that are definitely not equally dispersed among bike shops):
1) the scruffy guy wearing a bandana, camouflage shorts and casual athletic shoes with pedal cleats recessed into the soles so he can clip-in to his fully-suspended mountain bike at anytime and ride through a muddy single-track trail to the closest climbing wall to hang with his stoner buddies;
2) the clean cut skinny guy with a polo shirt, slightly shorter than average khaki shorts that conveniently expose his massively toned quads and calves, both of which have been shaved recently, who always manages to fit in at least one reference to his last century ride or triathlon just to prove to you he is more experienced than you will ever be and could probably blow by you going up hill in a fixed gear track bike;
3) the guy that drives to the store, even though he lives two blocks away, maybe owns a bike or two but is really just a casual rider and is trying to make a buck or two at a sales job that’s close to home.
The guy approaching me was definitely number three, and even admitted it throughout his “sales pitch.” At one point in the conversation he actually joked about the wrenchers in back, noting that one of them broke his collar bone two months ago while trail riding with some buddies, but now tells customers that the sling is helping him recover from a really crazy crash at this downhill racing track competition. He nailed this jump and landed a little sideways and flew over his handlebars, but he wasn’t sure exactly because he couldn’t remember much of it once he came to. In reality, he was just going too fast through the woods in a city park a few blocks away and his handlebar caught a branch, spinning him off the bike and causing him to simply fall on his side. He actually rode his bike home and his mom drove him to the ER that night. What a bad ass.
The guy helps me figure out the fit of a jersey, which really is just what is comfortable to you when sitting on the bike. The fact that I’m between sizes in everything is accentuated during my jersey fitting, ranging between Medium and Large. I end up choosing a white and black, short-sleeved Large jersey. It’s snug where I want it to be, has a few pockets on the back (pretty much standard on cycling jerseys) and doesn’t ride up over my waist when bending over, which is the ultimate test when trying them on, I learn.
He then asked me if I wanted to try on some shorts. I give him the deer in the headlights look, at which point he chuckled and confirmed my freshness to the sport. He said they’re pretty straightforward in fit. He showed me the pad in the crotch (called the chamois, or “shammy”) and explained its significance (which really didn’t need explanation, as the padded shorts were the primary reason for my trip to the store in the first place). Then explained that typically, shorts with more panels (or pieces of material making up the shorts) tend to fit and stay in one place better than shorts with fewer panels. I, staying with my proclaimed theme of “mid-entry level,” go with a mid-range priced pair of black shorts, and head towards the register.
The day of my bike purchase, the bike dealer gave me a few pointers as I was signing the paperwork, and his primary concern for me was that the tires needed to be filled with air to the correct pressure on a very regular basis (typically before every ride) in order to maintain durability, and proper handling. He said that a firm tire not only gave you safety, but really made a difference in speed and handling. He showed me a few pump models he had on the wall, but I was still somewhat shell-shocked by the check I just wrote out and didn’t feel like spending any more money that day. He assured me that if there’s one thing I needed, it was a pump.
Conveniently, there were some nice floor pumps by the register of this new store that were on sale. As well as some tire levers (two or three plastic pry bars, essentially, used to change the tire), spare tubes (self-explanatory), and saddle-bags (1. road bike seats are not called “seats, they’re “saddles;” 2. saddle bags are the little bags hanging off the bottom of the saddle that hold your portable tools should you blow a tire on the trails while you’re miles from home). After hitting the little devil off of my left shoulder, I assertively said “Yes” when the sales guy asked if that was all I needed.
I paid no attention to the total price and immediately shoved the receipt deep into my wallet so I wouldn’t find it until my checking account balancing act at the end of the month (which consists of me going online to make sure my balance is positive and looking for any possible fraudulent charges from Argentina or something). I go home, leaving my purchases in the trunk until my wife took off for work (she works nights). As soon as the garage door shut after her leaving, I went and grabbed my toys and modeled my spandex tuxedo to myself in the bathroom. I couldn’t believe it. I now looked like one of them, except with skinnier thighs and calves and a little bit of a gut pushing my tight jersey out (which I didn’t notice in the store, or anytime before that night). That first night in spandex was definitely eye opening. I’ve never checked myself out as much as I did that night. I had a lot of work to do to make it past the newbie level. There wasn’t any form-fitting jersey or carbon fiber bike out there that was going to make me intimidate anyone on the starting line. I looked scared. I actually felt nervous. I haven’t even set my butt on the bike seriously yet.
I peeled off the lycra, allowing my body expand back to its normal atmospheric pressure. I sit on the edge of my bed while tearing the tags off everything. I then remember what the sales guy told me as I was leaving.
“Just get out and start putting some miles on and you’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Probably the best advice I’ve gotten yet in this new adventure.
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