Sup, Bro?
Sup, bro?
My wife and I celebrated our six-year anniversary one month ago with our first overnight trip without kids in four years! It was surreal, having that much time to ourselves, so we made the most of it: We stayed at a four-star hotel where we spent the evening in style, going straight from a massage, to dinner, to the black jack tables (where my wife won $100), before heading to our room so my betrothed could soak in the mammoth tub while I snacked and watched reruns of The Office.
It was perfect!
So much so, that we decided to do the same thing next year. But I mentioned this because it featured my first ever solo massage, and it changed my life. But not for a reason you’d guess (Note: I’ve had a group massage before, but that’s different.).
My masseuse was a pro, gifted with the ability to push my muscles to the brink of pain without crossing the threshold, but just as I was beginning to think I should do this every week, she interrupted our silence and said, “Do you often get crippling headaches?”
“No,” I exhaled. “In fact, I can even count how many I’ve had with one hand—and that includes hangovers,” I continued with foolish, waning, 40-something male bravado.
“Oh. I’m surprised, given how much tension you have in your [she named a muscle I can’t figure out how to google]!”
“Well, I don’t get headaches, but I do feel that tension. Every day. I think it’s because I’m a writer, so I sit a lot. Even on weekends.”
“OK. Well, if you want it to go away, it’s not too late to do something about it.”
“Really? I’d love to! Lay it on me!”
I should mention that this conversation occurred while she relentlessly tortured massaged my upper back, not once slowing down or stopping, which is part of the reason I gave her one of the biggest tips I’ve ever given anyone, for anything.
“Well, the first thing you should do is start lifting weights.”
“Really?” I sighed, nearly wincing from her awful, terrible, inappropriate suggestion.
Her advice soured me, for two reasons. The first is articulated in “Don’t Look At Me,” but the second is owed to my experiences at gyms in Pittsburgh, Portland, Oakland, and Phoenix, each of which has taught me to avoid lifting in public weight rooms.
You see, I’m a cardio junkie, and always have been. It’s because I love the high I get, but also because I love burning calories before I spend them on food—it reminds me of earning an allowance just so you can blow it all on baseball cards and bubble gum.
But I also have a real aversion to lifting, thanks to a bevy of negative experiences that have taught me that it’s impossible to use a public weight room without a boundary-crossing meathead coming up to give me unsolicited advice for how to lift like they do.
This has happened to me at every gym I’ve been to, and I’m not nearly attractive enough for this to be owed to some homoerotic vibe I’m putting out (damn my luck). I believe it’s because most meat heads are 99% muscle and 1% self-esteem.
And I have no problem with that. If anything, I have compassion for that. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m as anti-social as you can get when exercising.
Yeah, I’m that guy, the one who shows up to the gym at off-peak hours in weird stretchy clothes with headphones in his ears from the time he leaves his car until he returns. And I even go so far as to never use a machine with anyone on either side of it.
And, if someone dares to hop on a machine next to me, I give them a look that says, “There are twenty other free machines! REALLY?” before hopping off and walking to a different machine to continue my cardio.
But lifting isn’t like that. There are less machines, so you often have to wait for someone to finish, or, conversely, you feel pressure to hurry when you sense someone’s waiting for you. And when you add that to the fact that I feel self-conscious about how much I’m lifting (and my form), it’s all too much.
I mean, I already feel self-conscious existing. I don’t need to pay a gym to feel even worse. So you can understand why I was put off by my masseuse’s suggestion. Anyway, I finished the amazing massage, thanked her for her advice, then blew my wife’s mind at dinner when I told her I was going to start lifting weights the next day.
“Wait! So you’re telling me that after six years of telling you to lift, you see some hot masseuse and she tells you the same thing, and now you’re going to do it?”
“Yup!” I smugged, grinning ear-to-ear. “But you left out the part where she’s a professional, with great bedside manner. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the quality of her hand job!”
After a hearty laugh, my beloved remembered she was supposed to be upset and launched into another attack. “Well, you at least better let me tell you how to lift!”
“Sorry, but she already told me what to do. Besides, if I needed advice, I’d ask my two friends who have been lifting for twenty-five years.”
“What? Why!”
“Well, for starters, because they know how to talk to me in a way that doesn’t make me feel…uh, the way I feel right now.”
The eternal love of my life grimaced, but I could tell she also (sort of) saw my point, and before we could continue, we got distracted by an entourage of appetizers, and the rest is history. I hit the gym the next day and have been lifting regularly ever since.
But I’m writing this because this week my worst fear came true! I was at the gym with one machine left—I’d been avoiding it because some meathead was hogging it the whole time. But now I had no other machine to use and I had to get home to my kids.
Exasperated, I walked over to the machine, took a deep breath, to combat my fear, then removed an earbud and said, “Um, hey. Will you be done soon?”
And wouldn’t you know it? This dumb, cocky, toxically masculine, warmongering everything-that’s-wrong-with-society animal did exactly what I’d stereotyped in my head! I mean, it was the worst…I’m still trembling from how badly this went.
Yup. This a-hole had the audacity to very politely jump up and say, “Oh man! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hog it! Wait a sec!” He then ran to grab some wet wipes and returned to furiously clean the machine. And when he’d finished, he gestured like a bell hop opening the door to your room and said, “Please use it, and sorry again!”
Flummoxed, I tried to smile and convey my utter surprise and delight, but all that came out was a muffled, “Um, thanks,” and then when I was finished I took out both earbuds, gave him a genuine smile, and said, “Thanks again! I really appreciate it!”
He smiled back, and a minute later we were making out in the sauna. I’m kidding. He went back to doing his bro thing, and I went back to doing my dad thing, but I’m making a point to send this out, to let you all know two things: 1. Despite all my bravado and effort, I’m still a judgmental jerk, and 2. “The Kids Are Alright!”
This week on Coffin Talk: David Darwin is a circus/sideshow entertainer who uses sword swallowing, fire eating, juggling and comedy to entertain. For 20+ years he’s brought his one-man-show to colleges, fairs, casinos, and resorts. LISTEN HERE.
lol should I start lifting too, “bro”?
Way to go!!!