After my sophomore year of college, I spent the summer of 2004 as one of two editorial interns hired by The Advocate newsmagazine. The other intern, Steven, was a student at Kent State University and had been hired on full-time. I applied late (no shocker there) after the position had already been filled, but the hiring team was impressed by my resume and LGBT activism and decided to bring me on anyway part-time.
Since I was a last-minute add-on, there wasn’t enough money in the budget to pay me. But it was still worth accepting the position just to get the experience on my resume. Plus, my ex-girlfriend Ana was from Los Angeles, so I was able to stay at her father’s house in Inglewood rent-free for the duration, which helped save on expenses. And that set-up sans income was much preferred over poor Steven’s living arrangement. His meager salary required him and his boyfriend to live in a roach-infested motel on Sunset Boulevard. The close quarters and lack of reliable transportation nearly ended their relationship by the end of the summer.
My situation had its fair share of tension, though. I was sleeping scrunched up on a loveseat in my ex-girlfriend’s bedroom while she slept within arm’s reach on her old twin bed. No one in her family knew she was bisexual. And everyone in the house (minus Ana) spoke only Spanish. My three years of high school Latin and two years of Italian in college weren’t doing me any favors. But that’s another story—or 10—for another time.
A further problem that resulted from the unexpected two interns was that there really wasn’t enough work for two people, especially at the same time. To remedy that, Steven worked every day in the mornings and early afternoons to put in enough time to fulfill a course requirement for school. I came in at 2:00 on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons and worked until the office emptied out a little after 5:00 p.m.
My mere three-hour shift might seem a bit useless, but I was excited to take advantage of any opportunity they could give me that would help me improve my writing and editing skills. Sometimes, I was allowed to come in early to get a feel for what the office was like during the peak of the day. But mostly I arrived later to finish what Steven hadn’t gotten done and work on articles I’d pitched to the editor.
Meanwhile, Ana had a full-time internship at the Feminist Majority Foundation in Beverly Hills that required her to be at work at 8:00 a.m. every day. Although she wasn’t terribly far from my office on Hollywood Boulevard—I was right across the street from Mann’s Chinese Theater—there was a dilemma: parking. We only had one car at our disposal—my black Mustang that we drove across the country at the beginning of the summer—and we each had to be at our respective jobs at drastically different times.
There were two main obstacles: For one, public transportation in L.A. sucks (At least it did at the time; I can’t say what it’s like now.). You’re pretty much screwed if you don’t have a car, especially if you’re driving 45 to 60 minutes from Inglewood like we did every morning. Two, I couldn’t afford to park my car all day in the garage next to my building after dropping off Ana in the mornings on days I worked. I always thought people were exaggerating when they bitched about the price of parking in big cities, but I quickly learned they weren’t fucking kidding. The daily rate for my building’s garage was $35. And while that may not seem astronomical at first, I almost stroked out when I calculated the expense over time:
- I multiplied the $35 daily fee by three to account for the days per week I worked.
- I multiplied that number by 10 for the number of weeks in my internship.
- I then subtracted that amount from what I was making as an intern, which was $0.
The end result? A profit margin of –$1,050.
Given that I was living off my last credit card with a positive balance, this was way too expensive. And Ana had no intention of contributing any money. I believe her words were, “It’s your car and your responsibility.” The fact that she didn’t have any other way to get to work other than in my car, which ran on gas I always bought, didn’t seem to factor into her decision-making.
So, I had to reach a cheaper solution, and there was only one at the time that seemed to have any hope of working in the end.
Ana didn’t have to pay for parking at her office, so she would drive me to work and drop me off in front of my building at 7:30 a.m., giving her enough time to get to work by 8:00 a.m. and park the car for free. Then, after she got off at 5:30 p.m., she would drive back and pick me up, arriving at around 6:15 p.m. depending on traffic, which was a beast.
This solution made monetary sense, but it also created a new predicament: I had a lot of waiting around to do for six-and-a-half hours a day, three days a week for the next 10 weeks. I was a little concerned.
The time gap wasn’t too problematic at the beginning of the summer. I had been to Los Angeles a few years prior as a tourist, but I only spent a couple days there. And for some of that time, I was in theme parks and not the city itself. I was excited at the opportunity to wander around Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding area for hours on end discovering new things—until two weeks into the summer.
I went through Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum. I browsed the Frederick’s of Hollywood bra museum on two separate occasions. I walked back and forth along Sunset Boulevard and perused every interesting shop I came across. I saw White Chicks five times at Mann’s Chinese Theater (They only played one movie at a time, and I’m a little obsessed with the Wayans brothers.). I watched The Stepford Wives reboot at least twice there, too. I gawked at Tony Hawk skateboarding in a pop-up halfpipe in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard. I ate numerous meals at Mel’s Drive-In Hollywood. And I stood in Jimmy Stewart’s shoe prints more times than I could remember.
I had a renewed sense of excitement after discovering Baja Fresh Mexican Grill, but you can only eat there so many times before all the burritos start to taste the same, no matter what’s inside them.
Gloria Jean’s coffee no longer appealed to me, either, and the waistband on my jeans was not appreciative of the three-times-a-week stop I was making at Cold Stone Creamery for the Oreo Overload Signature Creation with mint ice cream.
I was out of things to do. More importantly, I was out of money.
For a while, I just hung out on a bench in the open-air plaza outside the Kodak Theater—which was adjacent to Mann’s Chinese Theater—and watched day after day as people lined up in droves for the taping of American Idol. But courtyard kiosk workers started giving me odd looks after two weeks of sitting in the same spot for hours upon hours. They probably started to worry I was homeless given that I was already camped out on a bench by the time they arrived to set up their carts each morning. The oversized messenger bag I carried everywhere that was packed to the brim with books and other things to entertain me perhaps didn’t discourage them from thinking that, either.
Realistically, though, they were likely more concerned about the possibility of me stealing items off their displays. They didn’t seem to know what to make of the girl dressed in all black with jet black hair, heavy black eyeliner, Dr. Martens boots, and a long-sleeved hoodie who sat out in the hot California sun all day.
On top of all that, my unusually pale Italian skin didn’t like the sun damage rapidly developing on my face and arms.
Eventually, I realized I needed to spend my time more productively and burn off my Cold Stone calories, so I decided to join a gym to occupy some of my free time. There was a Bally Total Fitness one mile down the street from the TV Guide building where I worked, so I set off to check it out, schlepping my 10-pound, in-case-I-get-bored bag right along with me.
After trudging past countless gift shops advertising authentic maps to movie stars’ homes and peddling everything from thimbles to novelty spoons, I was mere moments away from passing out on the hot sidewalk when I finally stumbled into the air conditioned gym and sighed with relief. I was hungry, dizzy, exhausted, and possibly on the verge of heatstroke after walking for a mile in the glaring sun that insisted on beating down mercilessly on my dark hair and all-black outfit. I had never appreciated air conditioning more in my life, and I was temporarily filled with a sense that everything was now going to be okay.
What I didn’t anticipate, however, was how cunning gym representatives are. I discovered the hard way that it’s not a good idea to enter a workout facility while in a mental and physical state of exhaustion. Those employees are masterful puppeteers, and they knew just how to pull my strings to get me to do exactly what they wanted by preying on my vanity with an artful combination of praise and judgment. I now know it’s best to inquire about a gym membership only when well-rested, mentally focused, and prepared to refuse their services if necessary, especially when your bank account can’t support the membership fees.
Still heaving from lack of breath, which I refused to attribute to the half-a-pack of Camel Lights I had already smoked by 9:00 a.m., I lurched up to the front desk.
“May (deep breath) I (deep breath) please (heave) speak (deep breath) with someone (gasp) about (deep breath) joining (wheeze) the gym?”
The guy looked at me with terror and confusion but managed to pull himself together long enough to ask me to wait where I was before stepping away to get a representative. I’m sure he rushed the whole way there, hoping that if he pawned me off quickly, he wouldn’t have to be the one filling out the police report when I finally collapsed in an out-of-shape heap.
Luckily, by the time the sales rep took me to his office to discuss membership options, my breathing had regulated to a somewhat-normal level.
The man sat me down and told me about all the gym highlights and the perks I could take advantage of if I joined. Their gym, he emphasized, even had an on-location massage therapist, though he was quick to mention offhandedly that “those service charges aren’t included in the price of membership, of course.” Of course.
After oxygen had finally started making its way back to my brain and I was thinking somewhat coherently, I agreed to a three-month, summer-long contract, which came with three free sessions with a personal trainer. He then handed me a swipe card and told me I could start immediately.
To hell with that.
Was he fucking kidding? I just dragged my ass a whole mile down a hot city street with 10 pounds of books and a laptop computer on my shoulder. I’ll be damned if I start working out now only to have to stagger back in the opposite direction for another mile to get to work. Shouldn’t the walking be considered exercise enough?
I told him I wouldn’t begin using their facilities that day, but I would go ahead and schedule my first free session with a trainer.
When I left the building, I had an appointment card in my hand for my first session with Tina, physical fitness extraordinaire, in a few days at 8:30 a.m. As long as I could convince Ana to drop me off at the gym instead of my office so I wouldn’t be out of breath again upon my arrival, everything should work out fine.
Even though I didn’t officially workout that day, I figured my two-mile walk had to count for something. So when I got back to the Kodak Theater plaza, still with three hours to kill, I didn’t feel as bad for giving into my Cold Stone addiction. I mean, hey, at least I’d exercised.
While reading on my usual bench after my trek, I felt a sense of accomplishment for actually doing something to improve my weekly monotony. Sure, it was costing me $55 per month and a $200 sign-up fee. And, yeah, it was going onto a credit card that was a Tic-Tac purchase away from being over its limit. But at least it was something.
I was pumped and excited about getting into better shape, and what better place to do it than L.A.? Just walking down the street was motivation enough to improve my appearance, considering most of the girls prancing around made Cindy Crawford look like she had a binge-eating problem. Currently, the only places I didn’t stand out were in the more touristy areas, where I blended right in among those without stars in their eyes and liposuction scars on their abdomens.
The day finally came for me to begin my new exercise routine. And I was pretty excited about it. I even persuaded Ana, without too much of an argument, to drive the whole mile out of her way to drop me off, so things were already going well.
When I met up with Tina, I tried to display as much enthusiasm as possible—which was quite the feat for me given that I’m not overly emotive even when I’m excited. I wanted her to know I was fully dedicated to this new endeavor. She seemed to like my attitude and told me we’d start by warming up my muscles and getting my heart rate up.
No problem, I thought. A little stretching and light pedaling on a bike will do me good.
The stretching went as planned, albeit a little more intense than I had expected, but I really began to worry about where all this was heading when I was led to a treadmill and not the trusty reclining bike I was expecting. The idea of walking didn’t scare me—I walked for exercise all the time—but something told me this lady wasn’t about to let me get away with a brisk stroll.
As soon as I stepped onto the belt, she set my “warm-up” speed to a pace already nearing what I considered to be power walking. I was moving so quickly that I feared I’d soon be flying backward onto the panes of glass that separated the Pilates studio from the workout machines, looking much like a bug smashed on the windshield of a car driving down the interstate. Except, instead of bug guts, there was a good chance given my recent habits that I’d start oozing melted ice cream and would be left there as a cautionary tale for other gym-goers.
I was realizing quite quickly that this wasn’t going to end up the way I wanted.
When I finally caught up with the machine, and it seemed as if I were no longer running the risk of becoming something they’d have to clean off of the glass with a squeegee, I began to think that maybe this was something I could actually do. But I started developing my exercise confidence a little too soon. As quickly as that hope entered my mind, Tina uttered something that shattered my optimism.
“Okay, now I’m going to increase the speed to a steady jog,” she said, smiling and adjusting the settings on the display panel.
Is she fucking crazy? my mind screamed. I don’t run. I don’t jog. The only time I can even remember moving quickly recently was when I was sitting on a bench on campus smoking a cigarette, looked down, and noticed a spider crawling toward me. And my subsequent mad dash to the center of the quad in front of my dorm was by necessity and instinctive reflex, not choice.
“Uh, I don’t know about this,” I said.
I was barely able to utter intelligible words through my struggled breaths.
“I’m not used to jogging. I’ve never really done it before.”
The speed was rapidly increasing, and I was fighting for my life and dignity. I didn’t want to live with the memory of a gym full of people seeing my flattened ass plastered against a formerly streak-free window. The Pilates students were unaware of what soon might be coming their way. Years later, they’d probably still be talking about me as they sipped fruit smoothies at the snack bar.
Hell no, I thought. That’s not going to be me.
“You’re doing fine, trust me,” Tina said.
Sure, it was easy for her to say. All she had to do was stand there while I strained to keep myself upright. Her voice was calm and reassuring, but I wasn’t buying it.
“I don’t think I am. I can barely breathe,” I said, gasping.
She eyed me for a moment.
“Did you used to be a runner?” she said.
Shooting her a look of complete confusion, I shook my head vehemently back and forth.
“Definitely not.”
Why was this woman talking to me when it was quite obvious I could barely breathe even when remaining silent?
“You have the posture of a runner. Usually, people who aren’t runners don’t have form like this. You have great feet placement, and you keep your arms positioned nicely. Did you play any sports?” she said
“I played basketball, but that was in middle school.”
I was still struggling but was beginning to keep up with the pace. Those lithe Pilates bastards didn’t even know how favorably luck had just shifted in their favor.
“That must be it,” Tina said. “You look good. You’re doing great! I’m going to check on something in the office, but by the time I come back, your mile should be finished.”
“Okay,” I said.
She walked away.
I continued jogging for a minute before it hit me: a mile? She tricked me, complimenting me just long enough to keep me ignorant of how far she was going to make me run. Sneaky woman. I knew then I’d have to watch out for these people—they’re crafty.
I’m aware of your games, Tina, I thought. I’m aware of your games.
After she came back and congratulated me on my first-ever mile run—and years later, still the only one—she led me to the strength-training section. In that area, I endured just about every aspect of exercise hell in existence. I didn’t know it was possible to be so miserable for 45 minutes straight while supposedly pumping up those goddamn endorphins that should be making you feel fucking fantastic. Energized my ass. I had to gather every last iota of strength in me just to keep from weeping like a small child whose parents wouldn’t let her ride the mechanical horse at the grocery store.
Every time I balanced on that wobbling disk while squatting and raising dumbbells over my head, every time I lunged and had to hold the position with 10-pound weights in my hands, and every time I had to do a sit-up—oh, yes, a full sit-up; no crunches allowed with Tina—a little part of me died inside.
Her chants of “Good job!” and “You’re doing great!” were whizzing right past me and no longer had any effect on my motivation. I was too busy silently cursing her and shooting her evil looks to concentrate on what she was saying. I was on to her little manipulations, and she was only background noise to me now. I get that a trainer’s job is to push people further than they think they can go, but Tina didn’t seem to understand where the line was.
When time stopped moving backward and our session finally ended, I hobbled over to her, dropped the weights down next to her feet with a thud, and tried to remain standing instead of keeling over and calling it quits right there on the rubberized floor.
Her voice was finally coming into focus again when I heard her say, “Let’s go to the desk to schedule your next appointment.”
Next appointment? I thought. Fucking seriously? My heartbeat hasn’t even normalized yet and this mistress of pain is already planning my next torture session. Maybe she thought it was best to catch people when those supposed endorphins were at their peak of operation, but I guess mine had decided to relocate and not leave a forwarding address, because they certainly weren’t doing anything for me.
She walked over to the main desk while I followed begrudgingly behind her.
“What day works best for you?” she asked, while flipping through her planner.
I stood there and stared, still unable to form complete sentences.
“Do you have a day or time preference?” she continued.
She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something.
“When are you available?” I said.
I thought that by the time she responded, I would’ve thought of a way to get myself out of the whole thing.
“I’m pretty much here all day, every day, except for Wednesday. How about Friday at the same time?” she said.
It was currently Monday.
“Sure,” I said, defeated. “That should work.”
I took the card from her hand and gave her as enthusiastic of a thank you as possible—which I’m sure didn’t come off with much sincerity—and trudged to the locker room. By the time I regained my composure in the shower, I’d already made up my mind that I had no intention of ever keeping that appointment.
Poor Tina. She was nice and all, but I couldn’t put myself through that again. No way in hell. But now that I knew she only had Wednesdays off, it became the only day I’d ever be able to work out there again. I was too much of a pussy to admit fitness defeat and cancel with her—and a little afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist her convincing me to come back—so I did the only thing I knew would work: completely ignore the situation until it went away on its own.
Even though I spent all day Tuesday hunched over and limping around like an old woman with osteoporosis who had just attempted a triathlon, I was still determined to work out on Wednesday. I was locked into that summer agreement goddammit, and I wanted to take advantage of it, especially now that my window of opportunity had been swiftly reduced to one day per week.
I showed up the next day ready to exercise at a pace that didn’t make me want to suffocate myself in a yoga mat, so I gravitated to the reclining stationary bikes I had been longing for on Monday. I sat myself down in one directly in front of a television and began pedaling slowly, working my way up to a steady clip. Just as I reached my comfort zone, which meant I was working out briskly but not masochistically, a woman stepped in front of me. She had a nametag pinned to her shirt and “Personal Trainer” etched in the plastic underneath her name, which was Jessica.
Shit, I thought. Freakin’ Tina put a hit out on me. How did she figure out I’m not going to show up on Friday? I can’t believe she already put out an APB. All the trainers have probably been instructed to look for me and, if they see me, pressure me into returning for my next appointment. They’re going to try to pull me back in using that scary, peppy attitude.
I started thinking of an excuse for why I wouldn’t be able to return and tacked on enough sincerity to my theoretical speech to make it believable just in case I needed to use it.
“Hi, my name is Jessica.”
“Hi,” I said.
I was ready for any attack coming my way.
“Are you new to Bally Total Fitness?”
“Yeah,” I said.
It seemed like Tina had not yet put me on the “likely to bail” list, so it appeared I was in the clear. I was about to rejoice that Wednesdays would remain a safe day for me to exercise when Jessica opened her big mouth and ruined everything.
“I’ll bet you’re here to lose weight, right?”
She looked at me nonchalantly, breezing past the fact she had just sent the blades of 1,000 knives into my self-esteem. Oh, you personal trainers really are devious little creatures, aren’t you? I thought.
Not really knowing what I was supposed to say to that, I answered with a small, quiet “Yes.”
She nodded. “I thought so.”
Bitch.
“Well, when you’re ready to get started with a personal trainer, come over and ask for me and I’ll put you on an exercise program.”
She smiled and walked away.
Über bitch.
Even though I was only 10 minutes into my workout, I’d had enough.
I got off the bike, went back into the locker room, cleaned up as quickly as possible, and ran for the exit. Now, even Wednesdays were tainted. They were going to keep taking $55 from my bank account each month for a service I wouldn’t even be using anymore. I was fucked.
Tina had worn away the edges, but Jessica had finally punctured a hole in my already-weakened tire. I was deflated, and there was no way in hell I was going to show my face there again. This meant the other tire around my midsection wasn’t going to be disappearing anytime soon. None of the remaining days of the week were safe.
I never went back to the gym after Jessica eviscerated my last shred of dignity. As for Tina, I dodged her calls for the rest of the summer. I listened to one or two voicemails a week for a few weeks of her asking where I was and when I could come in again. But after a month passed, I started deleting the messages before I even let them play through. I felt bad for the lady, I really did. There was something to be said for her persistence and follow-through—something I probably could have learned from—but I still wasn’t about to answer and be tricked into exercising again.
No. No, thank you. I think I’ll just go back to sitting on the bench in my trusty plaza. Sure, I’ll continue to get the side-eye from all the kiosk workers. And yeah, the screaming American Idol fans were getting a bit tedious. But at least I was comfortable there. Sweaty and sunburned, yes, but comfortable. Plus, my trusty boredom bag was still slung over my shoulder everywhere I went, and carrying all that extra weight has to count for something, right?
The Procrastinating Writer 