The other day a miraculous thing happened. No, I didn’t grow four inches, Sarah Palin didn’t have her tongue (painlessly) ripped out by an orange-breasted falcon, and Tool did not play a concert in the empty living room of my mother’s house, but close. I was able to convince Simon to come to the gym with me.
To clarify: I am not a gym bunny. I do not wear Lycra and I don’t have a fancy arm-band contraption that would hold my iPod and protect it from sweat or the spit of strangers. I like the gym because it allows me to feel like I’m doing something healthier for my body than sitting on my ass while typing, and because I get to watch televised gems like For The Love Of Ray-J 2 and pretend it was an accident that I just happened to arrive when it started and serendipitously selected the machine right in front of the television. Going to the gym has become a hobby, but one that I’m ashamed to talk about with strangers, much like cat ownership or BDSM, lest I be judged as one of "those" girls. For the record, I do not own a cat.
Simon is not an athletic guy per se. Crafted by God to be the perfect height and weight ratio for yours truly, he’s not the largest man you’ll ever meet. Growing up skinny and small in Oklahoma led him to be called "fag" more often than he was picked to be on a dodgeball team, and the result was that he had a vehement hatred of sports until he started dating me. Two years of being exposed to my stereotypically dykey fanaticism for nearly all sporting events has infected him to the point that he can now even watch OU games without expecting empty beer cans to be lobbed at his face. But other than being exceptionally talented at riding his bicycle and bouldering (and an often unmentioned stint with a Boys’ State swim team,) he’s never been into alpha-male tomfoolery that may or may not involve steroids. All of which is fine by me, because big-necked meatheads with Nike "swoosh" tattoos — the likes of which lurk inside every Long Island saloon, shopping center, and sports car — make my labia snap shut like a defensive freshwater clam. Skinny, tattooed boys with glasses are what get my bell ready for ringing, bonus points if they can appreciate LeBron’s insanity from the perimeter.
That said, I’ve been teased by my better half for my frequent gym visits. This is because I’m also blessed with a boyfriend who would find me irresistible if I just gained ten pounds, and who fears the day when I walk in the door, built like an oily, veiny competitive weight lifter, with a blond ponytail and a hankering for diamonds mixed with male flesh. Fortunately, I only use the place for mild cardio, coupled with weights when I’m feeling pissed off. Which means that I do weights every time I’m teased about going to the gym. Which makes Simon’s nightmare that much closer to becoming a reality.
My gym membership, which was a gift of unprecedented awesomeness from a family member in light of my relocation to care for my mom before she died, is pretty nuts. The gym itself is in immaculate condition and smells like a eucalyptus field. The people there aren’t douchey, the staff is super friendly and attractive, and I often find that the song being played on the universal speakers matches the song that’s up next in my iPod playlist, no joke. They also provide guest passes in order to ensnare other potential clients. With a gym this nice, it was hard not to think that I could possibly convince my sedentary significant other to change his tune and maybe undo some of the damage caused by cigarette smoking. [Note: If you own a pack of cigarettes and smoke them, you are a smoker. It doesn't matter if you're "planning on" quitting or smoke a number that vacillates between 0 and 5 a day, you are still a smoker. You are a smoker until you no longer own, purchase, or consume cigarettes. And there's your spiteful semantics lesson for the day.]
After some cajoling, and a fight that rendered him on the giving end of the favor spectrum, Simon suited up in sweatpants and headed for the gym, guest pass and skipping girlfriend in hand. While I assumed my position on the stairway to nowhere, Chris arrived on the scene. Gorgeous, gallant, and gay, Chris has been a personal trainer at the gym for years. After two complimentary sessions with him, where we listened to La Roux and joked about lesbian bed death, I decided that he was my new best friend and last best hope for Simon’s cardiovascular system. Though it might seem perhaps like a staged sabotage, or an intervention, it really was just happenstance that Chris had a free hour to teach Simon about the joys of working out.
Personal training is a career calling. Much like freelance copywriting, you need to have equal parts talent and hustle. Unlike freelance copywriting, you need an accredited certification program to ensure that you’re not going to kill anyone. Most personal trainers start out by working at a gym in some capacity. At my favorite field house they have a ranking program that allows fledgling trainers to be employed on the floor supervising. This gives them the opportunity to become a part of the team while learning from the experienced trainers on staff and working towards their PT certification from legit organizations like the American College of Sports Medicine and the American Council on Exercise. There are tests on anatomy and exercises, trainers are taught how to measure BMI and a person’s fitness level, they’re instructed in the methods of crafting specific activity regimens for different individuals, and often they’re also taught about nutrition.
All of this education doesn’t ensure a job on the spot, though. Most trainers have to build up a client base in order to make money, which is why so many people who attend gyms find ripped men (and women) swaggering around like Creatine-swilling vultures looking for their next prey. It’s a tough industry, and one that isn’t forgiving to people who lack confidence, people skills, and, I’m assuming, a strong stomach when it comes to touching sweaty skin.
Celebrity trainers like The Biggest Loser‘s Jillian Michaels make more money than they can carry, and that’s saying a lot, but the average income for a non-famous personal trainer is between 34K and 43K a year, depending on experience and location. Hourly rates can vary, from starting out at $10, to raking in up to $35 an hour if you’re among the most elite exercise specialists. Trainers can also increase their paychecks by becoming certified in various specialties, such as kettle-bells or kickboxing. There are also a ton of places that require personal trainers, like cruise ships, resorts, and even corporate fitness facilities. Aside from working for yourself or working for a health club, there are other options. All of them require spunk, smarts, and savvy when it comes to knowing your stamina from your suppleness. (Those are two of the three different "components of fitness," the third being the obvious one, strength. Speed is sometimes factored in as a component, too.)
Watching Simon’s session was like watching Raging Bull spliced with The Seventh Seal. There was sweat, pallor, and the cursing of God. Chris remained chipper, cheering him by name, and adapting the exercises to coincide with Simon’s diminishing stamina. After about fifteen minutes, two medicine ball drills, and a handful of bench-presses, Chris gently instructed Simon to clamber back on the elliptical to cool down. Then he walked over to me.
"I told him it’s a matter of doing it every day," he said to me, in a manner that indicated he thought I could convince the boy to come back to the gym after this fiasco. "He needs to build up stamina over time, but a lot of that is just repetition. Low weights, many reps. Cardio five times a week. And quitting smoking. I don’t think he’ll be having a cigarette after that."
We glanced over to where, next to the elliptical, the puddle of my boyfriend lay on the floor, catching his breath and waving, mouthing "I’m good." Maybe it was just the endorphins clouding my vision, but suddenly I was able to see how personal training resembles copywriting. You have to inspire the client, and teach them without making them feel stupid. Most importantly, without compassion, the job would suck, and turn into a sadistic demonstration of machismo and expertise. Although I’m now convinced that Simon will begin comfort-eating in order to block out the memory of his personal training experience, and that in five years I’ll be dating a 5’7" manatee, it’s good to know that there are always people around who get paid to pump you up.
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