Thursday, December 10, 2009
A Nice Chat
With my new office building has come a new gym. Which is not very crowded right now, since the building hasn't really been open that long. Which is for the most part great, since I really appreciate not having to fight with fifty year olds in compression shorts for an elliptical machine. The only problem, really, is that the manager of the gym is bored and has apparently decided to take that out on me. Every day she comes over and starts a conversation with me while I'm on the treadmill. I have heard all about every aspect of her daily life, from when she gets up in the morning to what she likes to do for a workout to how stressed she is about getting the cable hooked up. The process of hiring a spin teacher alone has served as the basis for four different monologues. And her speeches are not short; I know this because I have a clock on the damn treadmill. Her story about how she accidentally got on the train going the wrong way clocked in at a full twelve minutes.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that she's just trying to be nice, and I appreciate that. But she seems not to understand that I am trying to work out, and it doesn't make me much of a conversationalist. It is very difficult to appropriately respond to her anecdote about choosing soap for the locker rooms when I am on the verge of cardiac arrest. My fake laugh is not nearly as compelling when I am running out of breath. Plus, I kind of want to strangle her, since I'm kind of in pain.
I'm actually at the point where I'm about to recruit all my friends and neighbors to join just so she'll have someone else to talk to. I'm sure I'll miss her when she's gone.
With my new office building has come a new gym. Which is not very crowded right now, since the building hasn't really been open that long. Which is for the most part great, since I really appreciate not having to fight with fifty year olds in compression shorts for an elliptical machine. The only problem, really, is that the manager of the gym is bored and has apparently decided to take that out on me. Every day she comes over and starts a conversation with me while I'm on the treadmill. I have heard all about every aspect of her daily life, from when she gets up in the morning to what she likes to do for a workout to how stressed she is about getting the cable hooked up. The process of hiring a spin teacher alone has served as the basis for four different monologues. And her speeches are not short; I know this because I have a clock on the damn treadmill. Her story about how she accidentally got on the train going the wrong way clocked in at a full twelve minutes.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that she's just trying to be nice, and I appreciate that. But she seems not to understand that I am trying to work out, and it doesn't make me much of a conversationalist. It is very difficult to appropriately respond to her anecdote about choosing soap for the locker rooms when I am on the verge of cardiac arrest. My fake laugh is not nearly as compelling when I am running out of breath. Plus, I kind of want to strangle her, since I'm kind of in pain.
I'm actually at the point where I'm about to recruit all my friends and neighbors to join just so she'll have someone else to talk to. I'm sure I'll miss her when she's gone.
