Month: April, 2015


I ask him if we can share the floor because he is working right in the middle of two racks.


So where two people should be able to function side by side, now only one guy is occupying the entire space.


His snarly reply of sure clearly means no.


He doesn’t move.


And I end up going into another open spot.


A few minutes later, he comes up and asks if I am using a particular set dumb bells.


Even thought there are many more such sets lying around, I say that I am but he can totally work in – the polite gym etiquette meaning we can take turns using them.


He picks them up and takes them to another corner of the room, never returning them.


Gym rats can be nasty, vicious and selfish creatures.


I am outwardly by nature more of a gym bunny.


I’m peaceful and I play well with others.


Except when it comes to my own emotions.


Then I have no problems bullying myself with anger, insecurity and doubt.


Lately though, my bunny is getting better at kicking my rat’s ass.




I like working out with my trainer because he knows my body better than I know it myself.


Trying to press a weight that I have successfully lifted many times before, but not recently because of the flu, my first attempt was a total flop.


As he pulled the bar of my chest, he calmly said, “Rest 5 minutes and try again. Your second time around is always better.”


There are days when we don’t always try again. We drop the weight and work at a lighter load, to prepare for the days when we can try again.


And then, there are days like this where he intuitively knows I’m just warming up.


True enough, each successive lift gets better.


More confident and clean.


More explosive and smooth.


We do three work sets and call it good.


I enjoy dedicating the time and I am disciplined to put in the work, whatever kind of work is required for the day.


But the days when I get to do second tries are my favorite days of all.



I accidentally told my trainer this week that he was a tax deductable.


Which for some reason made me feel incredibly shitty.


Because it came off sounding like our relationship was being diminished somehow.


Like I was working out for free.


Apparently, looking pretty is a business expense when you are an entertainer, so any gym related expenses legally reduce my taxable income.


Since deductions are generally allowed for things that produce benefits, what I really meant to imply was that having him in my life is a wonderful attribution.


If I could account for all the other positive attributions that enhance who I am in my taxes this year, I’d owe the IRS nothing.



I am confused.

A man slips me a phone number on a napkin and tells me to play it.

He says an old roommate from college used to assign different notes to the digits to make melodies.

This was his song.

His phone number.

I assume 1=do, 2=re, 3=mi on the scale … and so on, making 8=high do,9=high re and 0=high mi.

I improvise something, add some chords and noodle for a while, wondering if this is what my life has really amounted to.

Figuring four verses enough to humor an oddball request, I look up to see him crying.

He wept.

Openly, with his head buried in his hands.

He tells the bar that this IS his song.

He hasn’t heard it in years.

Not since Matt passed away.

Nobody has been able to play it until now.

And then I know.

It’s not just a Good Friday.

It’s a great day.