“How’s it going?” Daniel appears from nowhere startling me so much I almost fall off the damned stair master. He is omnipresent it seems.
“I feel good,” I shrug a smile and pull off my iPod earphones.
“Aren’t you supposed to do the treadmill today?”
“Was that today?” I play dumb. I’m blonde after all. But he’s not…
“You need to follow the work out calendar I gave you.”
“OK,” I say descending from the machine. I wipe my face with the white towel they gave me at reception. It feels rough against my skin.
“I feel like you’re not communicating with me enough.”
“If you see me in the gym, you can say ‘hi’ or ask a question, you know.”
“Well, I don’t want to bug you…”
This is partly true. When I worked I used to go to the fitness center in my building and use the elliptical machine. I stopped going because all my clients used to interrupt my exercising to give me laundry lists of things they wanted me to do for them. I never want to be that client to him, or interrupt him if he is training other people. That’s not fair to him or his clients.
The other part of the truth is that I avoid Daniel like the plague. I feel like I’m doing everything amiss and he always seems to notice and will send me texts like, “We need to work on ur form on some of ur back exercises! R u getting good activation?” or “No! Ur pullovers weren’t pullovers,” or “Stop holding the rails on the treadmill!!!”
Half the time I didn’t even know he was in the gym, let alone noticing all the stuff I was doing wrong. Then I realized that the man lives in the gym. He sleeps on the treadmill and his pillow is a 50 lb. weight.
“I keep pretty good tabs on all my clients and I feel like you’re not communicating enough. You’re paying a lot for training sessions. If you have a question about the exercises, or form, or your diet, you should text me.”
I will never text him.
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