It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections From a Terminally Optomistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman (16 page)

A few months later, we went to a Super Bowl party at the home of the happily newlywed couple, Emmett and Sarah. We were just hanging out eating turkey pepperoni, gouda cheese and crackers, drinking wine, and having a great time until our friend Gigi, who’d been with her boyfriend, Kurt, for…well, who the hell knows, but the point is, suddenly, in slow motion, she raised her left hand and said, “I have an
announcement” all girlie, and all I thought was
she better not be getting married because then I really will be the last of our group to get married. Plus, she’s way too cool for that. She’s a guy’s girl! She loves football, she’s a teacher, a feminist…

“Kurt and I are engaged!”

I practically choked on my Ritz. I could barely smile. “That’s so great! I’ve got to grab something from the kitchen,” I said. I left the room and lost it behind the freezer. Sarah was sent for. At that point, I hoped the rest of the guests thought I had my period and needed a tampon—even that would’ve been less embarrassing than crying over the fact that my stupid boyfriend wouldn’t propose. Sarah did her best to console me.

“He’s going to marry you, Stef. I know he is. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but I know he is going to marry you. You know how he is; it takes him forever to make a decision about which color Converse sneakers to buy.”

“I know,” I sobbed. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this anymore. I’m mortified and I feel pathetic. Don’t tell Gigi.” Sure, being able to make any situation about myself was a talent but sometimes a talent that’s best kept hidden.

Later that night, I drank a little too much wine and got right back to shaming myself in earnest. “When are you going to propose? You said you were going to. You said you wanted to marry me and it’s been over three years! If you’re not going to marry me, just tell me now so I can get used to that fact and not keep hoping for something that will never happen.” I got no real response. So I took the
hint and waited a couple of weeks…fine,
two days
before trying again. But first I cooked him a great dinner and drank a couple of glasses of wine. And then I started asking again. And a few nights later, the same thing. And then a couple of nights later, the same thing, except that this night it got violent. This is where I started playfully punching him in the arms. Then not so playfully, then he started egging me on. All of a sudden, he got aggravated and said, “Do you really want to ruin the surprise?”

“Surprise?”

“Yes, dumbshit, the surprise.”

“I’d very much like to ruin the surprise. I don’t want to be surprised. I want to be engaged.” And with that, for some reason, I stomped off to our bedroom and lie on the bed, possibly to watch the room spin around or maybe to watch
Six Feet Under
and feel sorry for myself. I heard a rustling in the kitchen and then Jon came into the bedroom with two handmade Color Me Mine mugs, which he placed down next to me on the bed.
Oh my God, the man had gone to Color Me Mine. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.

The first one said, “Happy Anniversary to My Bitch.” Our three-year dating anniversary had passed six months before, so I had no idea where he was going with this. Then I saw the other mug: “Wanna Get Hitched?”

“I tried to give you these six months ago. I left them in front of the coffeemaker, but you refused to go get me coffee. You had just started at work and you had some meeting you had to get to.”

“Well, why didn’t you try again the next day then?”

“I did. But you rushed out the door again.”

“And there were no other days available in your schedule for proposing?”

“Well, time kind of got away from me, and then it seemed ridiculous to give you the mugs since it was no longer close to our anniversary. So I figured I’d come up with something else.”

“And it’s six months later and you still haven’t come up with anything else?”

“Well, no. I was working on it.”

“Okay, then. My answer is yes. I would love to marry you!” And then I called everyone I knew to say, “Ooooh, myyyy Gawd! Guess what?!”

I
t was one of those typical days where the only way I made it to the gym was by bribing myself with the promise of getting something pretty afterward, like a sparkly new lip gloss or a Croissan’Wich—a bargain at only 29 grams of fat. Although I live in Los Angeles, where I have been known to shop at Whole Foods and throw down a hundred bucks for artichoke chicken garlic sausages, a cube of tofu, and some Burt’s Bees hand lotion, I still maintain a cheapo membership to a national chain gym. It’s a pretty low-rent operation despite its claims of quality and the dozens of classes available to its members—well, except for any class that involves an activity popularized in this decade, like boxing, hip-hop, Pilates, or yoga. No, those are extra. The basic membership classes are followed by descriptions like “low impact,” “light toning,” or “only slight chance of hip breakage.” The median age in these classes is about seventy-six, and at least half the attendees still
think matching headbands and leg warmers are a sweet idea. And yes, that includes the men. It’s like one minute you’re in Hollywood and the next minute you’re in 1986.

Luckily, I don’t care about classes anyway, since I have no interest in jumping around to bad disco music, forcing me to pretend I threw my back out so I can protect my dignity when I bolt out early and go get a prescription for muscle relaxants. Plus the fact that the classes invite socializing, and for me, chatting it up with other people while I’m wearing little more than a sports bra does not equal a good time.

Although I’d gotten it together enough to get in the car and drive there, I was feeling especially lazy. Sure, I was there for a workout, but I still drove around the parking lot for a half hour trying to find the very closest spot to the front door to save myself any unnecessary exertion. But, because I’d put off my workout until the busiest time of day, I ended up parking all the way near the back of the lot and I couldn’t help but get irritated thinking about how thoughtless it was of my gym not to provide some sort of shuttle service. Note to self: Drop a note into the suggestion box if they have one.

When I got out on the floor, I realized there were lines for all the treadmills, elliptical machines, and Stairmasters—there were even lines for the scales, which was bewildering: What kind of masochists would willingly subject themselves to the spectacle of a public weigh-in? I would rather repeat junior high than weigh myself in the middle of a crowded gym fully dressed. Personally, I only like to weigh myself first thing in the morning, completely naked on an empty blad
der. I’ve been known to tweeze my brows before stepping on a scale but, then again, it’s been well established that I have issues. So, due to the crowd, I was forced to stand around reading my
National Enquirer
—which, FYI, I only buy for the crossword puzzle—while I waited for a Precor machine.

Eventually I got a seat at the chest machine that always makes me think of
Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret
—so much so that I can’t help but chant ever so softly under my breath, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust.” It was there that I first heard
the Sound:
a groaning, guttural grunt like someone having great sex or a grand mal seizure. It seemed to be coming from behind me somewhere, but it was hard to tell exactly. The Sound was so loud it managed to pierce through the Kanye West blaring through my iPod ear buds. My head snapped around, expecting to see either a porno being shot or a situation that would require me to call paramedics. At first, I couldn’t find the origin of the noise, but, finally, I spotted a woman in the back of the room working out with a personal trainer, who couldn’t decide whether he was Zorro or the Latin version of Fabio. He had a black bandanna wrapped around his head pirate style, a black tank top that seemed purposely four sizes too small, and he was wearing a cape, seriously. At least that’s how I remember it. Sure, I guess it’s possible that under hypnosis I might hazily recall that it was only a black towel draped around his shoulders making me think of a cape. But until that happens, I stand by my cape memory.

With each lift of what looked like a two-pound hand
weight, the woman being trained by Zorro let loose with the Sound. I couldn’t figure out why all the overexertion was happening; she wasn’t in kick-ass shape but she wasn’t completely out of shape either—more like someone who’d been hitting the soy sauce too hard for a few months. I attempted to ignore the whole scene and put my Kanye back on.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuooooooohhhhhyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!” I clearly heard over the music.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOmmmmmmmmm aaaaaaaaaaaaaah”

What the hell?
I ripped my ear buds out again—hearing someone get sodomized turns out to be more distracting than one would think. In fact, I’m surprised that so many people have been able to churn out novels while incarcerated.

“UUUUUUUHHHHRRRRRR
AAAAAAAAAAAAA
HHHHUHHHHGGGGG”

It was getting worse. So mid-set, I made a huge production of gathering my
Enquirer
, water bottle, and iPod and noisily stalked across the weight room to the sit-up station, hoping that my irritation was noticeable. But the
Sound
followed me. Even from a distance I could still hear her loud
and clear. In fact, at this point, it was
all
I could hear. The Sound consumed all the air in the room. Sit up, Sound! Sit up, Sound. Rest. Sound. Since it was impossible to work out, I caught the eye of the woman on the crunch machine next to me and shook my head at her as a show of solidarity against the freaks at the gym.

In a way, I was not even surprised this was happening. Whenever I work out, I seem to have some sort of bad gym juju. There always seems to be some random dude karate chopping his way around the room, or a woman in a crowded class doing her own workout routine in the mirror, or a stark naked woman curling her hair in the locker room. Sure, those people are distracting, but at least they’re quiet.

Just then, Zorro swaggered by for a drink of water. As he passed, he saw me staring at him in what I’m sure he mistook for a “God, I love a man in a cape” way, and with a vulgar smile he said, “How are you doing?”
How am I doing? How did he think I was doing? I was livid.

I so badly wanted to say, “
How about getting that chick to tone down the Meg Ryan orgasm impressions so I could get in one more set of sit-ups in peace?
” but I was scared he might pull out the sword hanging down from his waist and challenge me to a duel. At least, I
hoped
it was a sword, but I wasn’t taking any chances. So instead I opted for, “Is there any way you could ask the woman you’re training to keep it down a little?” Zorro cocked his head like he was listening for banditos scaling the outside wall and headed back to the Sound.

Next thing I know, the Sound was in my face startling me
so badly I almost fell off the rowing machine I’d just barely figured out how to use. “Did you tell my trainer to tell me to be quiet?” she practically screamed in a Spanish accent that tends to sound passionate even if the person is just helping you with directions.
Wow, if I got into a fistfight in the gym at almost forty years old that would make a great story.
But then I also thought,
I am very opinionated and oftentimes, many of which when I’ve forgotten to take a Xanax, I can’t keep my thoughts completely to myself and this behavior has led to no good in the past.
So I calmly said, “Your deafening workout noises are driving everyone nuts. Plus, there’s a rule that says no loud or strange noises.” I pointed to one of only about a hundred signs in the gym posting the rules, which people routinely ignore. Some of the rules include:

• No loud or strange noises that may distract other members
  
• Always use a workout towel
  
• Be courteous of others
  
• Limit cardio machine use to 30 minutes
  

And here’s my brief wish list for more rules that shouldn’t need to be posted but yet they seem to be necessary:

• Your workout towel is not for decoration
  
• Deodorant isn’t optional
  
• If I can see the outline of your penis, your pants are too tight
  
• Cell phone talkers will be subject to nasty looks
  
• The basket on the Lifecycle bikes is not an empty Red Bull receptacle
  
• There’s a reason you’re wearing headphones; singing over them defeats the purpose
  

Without even a cursory glance at the rule I’d kindly pointed out, the Sound snapped back loudly, “I am paying eighty dollars an hour for a personal trainer so I’m entitled to be as loud as I want,” which, obviously, makes no sense whatsoever. I started to get really pissed, not just for me but for everyone at the gym who has been bullied by this noise-polluting lunatic. So, since it seemed that no one else was going to stand up to her, feeling very much like Norma Rae, I screamed, “We are
all
members of this gym with equal rights regardless of whether or not we pay some stupid Zorro impersonator, in a stupid cape, to train us, and that entitles all of us to work out without having to listen to your fake orgasms. So either join another gym or shut the hell up and work out like a normal person.” I’m not going to lie; I did sort of half expect the place to erupt in applause or perhaps participate in a quick round of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” but no one even made eye contact with me. Most people seemed to pretend I wasn’t even there. Well, maybe
pretend
is too strong a word, but still, even a nod in my direction would have been appreciated.

The Sound responded by calling me something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand, but I had a feeling if we were in Spain those would be fighting words, then said in English
that she’d be waiting for me in the parking lot and stomped off. What was this, junior high?

I figured the best course of action seeing as we were both mature adults would be to tell on her. I was too shaken to continue any kind of workout anyway, and luckily I was pretty much done—more than two sets of stomach crunches is just overkill in my book and I’m morally opposed to stretching after exercise. I can understand stretching
before
you exercise, but that seems like more than enough. Why all the obsession with flexibility?

On my way to the women’s locker room, I popped my head into the glass-enclosed offices of “management.”

“Are you looking to join?” a young guy who couldn’t have been older than fifteen in a polo shirt and ponytail asked way too eagerly.

“I’m already a member here. A paying member, and I’d like to lodge a formal complaint. Who do I need to speak to?”

“Well, I could help you but I’m about to give a tour right now. Maybe when I get back?”

“Isn’t there someone else who could help me?”

“Um, Tim is in the next office but he’s with the new trainees right now. You could come back in a half hour. But your best bet is to put it in the suggestion box.” This was useless.

As I was turning the combination lock with shaking hands to get my stuff out of my locker, I spotted the girl I’d made eye contact with earlier doing sit-ups. When she saw me, she turned away almost as if she was trying to avoid me.
Impossible. I walked right up to her and said, “That was pretty insane, am I right? I mean, didn’t it sound like she was having sex? Who could work out with that shit going on!” She looked at me a little fearfully, which I could completely understand—after all, we’d all been put through a traumatic experience—and slowly backed out of the locker room saying, “Yeah, there are some crazy people at this gym.”

Exactly.
Finally, someone else got it. I felt so much better; I grabbed a suggestion card from the box on my way out. Maybe I
would
lodge that complaint. And maybe I’d suggest the shuttle while I was at it. I figured I had some time because I’d need to wait for ponytail guy to get back from his tour to see if he could escort me to my car.