Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Small Talk
So my new trainer has apparently decided that a good way to motivate me is to pepper me with questions about my life as I hoist ginormous weights above my head. I seriously feel as though I'm training with Charlie Rose. The questions just seem to keep coming no matter how out of breath or in pain I may be. I realize that it's sort of an awkward situation to be in, much like going to the dentist: there are two parties there, but one of them is most definitely disqualified from any sort of competent conversation. The typical solution is just to prattle on incessantly about oneself, though, as exemplified by my dental hygienist who catalogued for me a variety of fascinating facts about her hobby of collecting dolls. My trainer, on the other hand, maintains a secrecy level generally reserved only for high-ranking officials of the Bush administration. He only likes to ask questions, even if my responses happen to be horrific grunts.
I am not good in these situations. I simply don't need to be telling my life story to the man who forces me to roll around on a Resist-A-Ball. Or to a cab driver, for that matter. Or my hairstylist. I tend to find myself making things up before I know it, announcing that I received secret ninja training from the Department of Homeland Security or that I'm best friends with Angela Lansbury. Or I try unsuccessfully to turn the subject to something I'm passionate about, like James Joyce, or the early works of Lindsay Lohan. I think that really the only solution is for me to go live in a cabin deep in the woods and pen a manifesto about the evils of technology.
So my new trainer has apparently decided that a good way to motivate me is to pepper me with questions about my life as I hoist ginormous weights above my head. I seriously feel as though I'm training with Charlie Rose. The questions just seem to keep coming no matter how out of breath or in pain I may be. I realize that it's sort of an awkward situation to be in, much like going to the dentist: there are two parties there, but one of them is most definitely disqualified from any sort of competent conversation. The typical solution is just to prattle on incessantly about oneself, though, as exemplified by my dental hygienist who catalogued for me a variety of fascinating facts about her hobby of collecting dolls. My trainer, on the other hand, maintains a secrecy level generally reserved only for high-ranking officials of the Bush administration. He only likes to ask questions, even if my responses happen to be horrific grunts.
I am not good in these situations. I simply don't need to be telling my life story to the man who forces me to roll around on a Resist-A-Ball. Or to a cab driver, for that matter. Or my hairstylist. I tend to find myself making things up before I know it, announcing that I received secret ninja training from the Department of Homeland Security or that I'm best friends with Angela Lansbury. Or I try unsuccessfully to turn the subject to something I'm passionate about, like James Joyce, or the early works of Lindsay Lohan. I think that really the only solution is for me to go live in a cabin deep in the woods and pen a manifesto about the evils of technology.
