[gouache + ink.]
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Mike the personal trainer
While I’m feeling the 24 Hour Fitness flow, I thought I’d reflect back on when I first signed up for my three-year membership and got five “free” personal training sessions. Not one to turn down anything labeled “FREE” (even if it’s stale cookies from an unknown source sitting on the water cooler, or ugly magnets and post-it notes at a career fair), I quickly jumped on this opportunity — after all, it had something like a $300 value. So really by attending five sessions of personal training (which I really really didn’t want to do) I was gaining $300. If I didn’t do the sessions, it would be like taking $300 and throwing it into the gutter. This is how my easily manipulated mind works.
Plus the enthusiastic people at 24 Hour Fitness would not stop calling me. Every day since I signed up, they would call me incessantly, asking how my workouts were going, encouraging me to sign up for personal training. So I signed up and was assigned a trainer named “Mike.” (This was not his real name, but it works.) Our relationship did not start out on a good note. When I arrived to my first session, Mike was not there to meet me. It was a Wednesday evening. I waited for ten minutes at the front desk and still he did not show up. Somewhat relieved, I went home. Then I got a phone call from Mike. “Hey, where are you?” he asked, as if I stood him up. We arranged to meet the next morning at 6am, before work. He sounded reluctant but I couldn’t do any other time. Clearly we were both unenthused about our meeting.
Later that night I got a text message from an unfamiliar number. “Hey can you meet on Friday night instead?” the text said. It took me a few seconds to realize that this was Mike the personal trainer, texting me. What the heck! I wanted to tell him No, I do not want to meet you for personal training on a Friday night, but I also did not want to text him back. Who wants a texting relationship with their personal trainer?
Anyway I think I did end up texting him back, and we still met the next morning for our first session. Mike was a young black guy who was apparently on his college wrestling team and did personal training on the side. For our first meeting, he basically did a variety of weight tests and asked me a bunch of questions about my diet. His concluding assessment was that I’m slightly overweight according to some weight chart and that I need a new diet, which he printed out for me. Half of the “approved” food items on the list were Apex products, conveniently sold at the front desk. (If you’ve never tried Apex food, trust me it’s very disappointing — they have yummy-sounding items like chocolate chip cookies and granola bars, but they taste like cardboard and have the consistency of a rubber boot.) With my self-esteem lowered and my motivation to exercise increased (I guess that’s the point of the first meeting?) we agreed to meet the next week for my second session.
The lowered-self-esteem-and-motivation-to-exercise wave did not last long, however. By the third or fourth session with Mike, I was pretty done with personal training. I learned some handy exercises with the balance ball and the weight machines, but I didn’t like having to meet with this guy in the mornings. He did try to connect with me, though. He’d make all kinds of references to hip hop or r&b music and ask me if I liked this song or that artist. Nine times out of ten I didn’t get his references or hadn’t heard of any of the songs. This was disheartening.
One time I called Mike to reschedule a meeting. He did not answer his cell phone but instead I got his voicemail greeting, which was a guy singing “"Make up, and break up, That's all we do, Then we have sex, next thing you know, Everything is cool. Best of Both Worlds! Holla at your boy!" Apparently this was an R. Kelly song. I can only guess that the voice of the guy singing was Mike himself. When I told John about his voicemail greeting, we both agreed that this guy must get all the ladies. I mean, his voice wasn’t bad, and who has the balls to sing an R. Kelly song as your voicemail greeting?
Anyway, I think the lesson I learned was that from now on I will only do things that I want to do, rather than things I feel like I should do, especially when it comes to things like exercise or one-on-one situations. Ultimately if I am not committed to or excited about something, I just won’t want to do it and it will be torturous and awkward for all parties involved. Poor Mike. I hope he got more enthusiastic clients after me.
Plus the enthusiastic people at 24 Hour Fitness would not stop calling me. Every day since I signed up, they would call me incessantly, asking how my workouts were going, encouraging me to sign up for personal training. So I signed up and was assigned a trainer named “Mike.” (This was not his real name, but it works.) Our relationship did not start out on a good note. When I arrived to my first session, Mike was not there to meet me. It was a Wednesday evening. I waited for ten minutes at the front desk and still he did not show up. Somewhat relieved, I went home. Then I got a phone call from Mike. “Hey, where are you?” he asked, as if I stood him up. We arranged to meet the next morning at 6am, before work. He sounded reluctant but I couldn’t do any other time. Clearly we were both unenthused about our meeting.
Later that night I got a text message from an unfamiliar number. “Hey can you meet on Friday night instead?” the text said. It took me a few seconds to realize that this was Mike the personal trainer, texting me. What the heck! I wanted to tell him No, I do not want to meet you for personal training on a Friday night, but I also did not want to text him back. Who wants a texting relationship with their personal trainer?
Anyway I think I did end up texting him back, and we still met the next morning for our first session. Mike was a young black guy who was apparently on his college wrestling team and did personal training on the side. For our first meeting, he basically did a variety of weight tests and asked me a bunch of questions about my diet. His concluding assessment was that I’m slightly overweight according to some weight chart and that I need a new diet, which he printed out for me. Half of the “approved” food items on the list were Apex products, conveniently sold at the front desk. (If you’ve never tried Apex food, trust me it’s very disappointing — they have yummy-sounding items like chocolate chip cookies and granola bars, but they taste like cardboard and have the consistency of a rubber boot.) With my self-esteem lowered and my motivation to exercise increased (I guess that’s the point of the first meeting?) we agreed to meet the next week for my second session.The lowered-self-esteem-and-motivation-to-exercise wave did not last long, however. By the third or fourth session with Mike, I was pretty done with personal training. I learned some handy exercises with the balance ball and the weight machines, but I didn’t like having to meet with this guy in the mornings. He did try to connect with me, though. He’d make all kinds of references to hip hop or r&b music and ask me if I liked this song or that artist. Nine times out of ten I didn’t get his references or hadn’t heard of any of the songs. This was disheartening.
One time I called Mike to reschedule a meeting. He did not answer his cell phone but instead I got his voicemail greeting, which was a guy singing “"Make up, and break up, That's all we do, Then we have sex, next thing you know, Everything is cool. Best of Both Worlds! Holla at your boy!" Apparently this was an R. Kelly song. I can only guess that the voice of the guy singing was Mike himself. When I told John about his voicemail greeting, we both agreed that this guy must get all the ladies. I mean, his voice wasn’t bad, and who has the balls to sing an R. Kelly song as your voicemail greeting?
Anyway, I think the lesson I learned was that from now on I will only do things that I want to do, rather than things I feel like I should do, especially when it comes to things like exercise or one-on-one situations. Ultimately if I am not committed to or excited about something, I just won’t want to do it and it will be torturous and awkward for all parties involved. Poor Mike. I hope he got more enthusiastic clients after me.
On fitness classes
Finally went to the gym this week after a long hiatus. Tonight I tried a pilates class. I've decided that I like taking classes at the gym, if only because the catchy music and the different movements somehow deceive my body into thinking that I'm not actually exercising. It's like my body thinks I'm just reaching down to pick up a piece of paper on the ground, except about 30 times in a row in sets of 3, to the beat of a catchy song. Or today, we pretended that we were holding a giant cup with our arms and rotating left and right, left and right, left and right, left and right... about a million times, until my puny arms were shaking like sheets of toilet paper in the wind. in fact, my whole body was shaking by the end of the class. it was pathetic. But at least i've come to the conclusion that i need to find forms of exercise that will trick my body into thinking that i'm having fun and not actually exerting physical energy.
I did notice one guy who has been in every class I've been to. Granted I haven't been to that many, but even when I pass by the exercise room and peer in, I see him! Doesn't matter if it's yoga or pilates or the one with the weights and the loud spastic music. Even tonight, I noticed he was in the class before pilates. I think it was some aerobics class. So while everybody filed out of the room, this dude stuck around, took off his shoes and socks, and then rolled out his pilates mat. I think the guy is addicted to fitness classes. I also noticed that he's like BFF with the instructors, since I usually see him chatting it up with them after class. Does this guy live at the gym?? I suspected that maybe he was trying to score some digits with either the instructors (who are usually women with great bods) or the other people in the class (many of whom are CLAGs [cute little asian girls]). But who would want to go out with a guy who spends every night of the week in fitness classes?? Come on!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
give thanks
I made these Thanksgiving postcards last night on the gocco. It was a very simple design idea in my head, and overall I have to say that they turned out pretty much how I imagined they would.
Well actually in my mind the front was going to be on dark brown paper with the mustard print, but when I tried to print on the dark brown it looked pretty ug. And you couldn't really see the print. So that's why it's printed on white, unfortunately.
However, I did do a few cards on light brown, which looked alright:
I made about 40 of these. I'd like to give most of them away. So if you would like to express your gratitude to somebody during this Thanksgiving season, and if I happen to see you this weekend, please grab some. Also if you receive one from me, it is because I like you and am thankful for you (also because I happen to have your address).
Thursday, November 13, 2008
F Car Adventures*
I am waiting at the F car stop outside of the Embarcadero station. The waiting platform is an island in the middle of Market Street, such that you have to cross the road in order to get there. Oftentimes people emerge from the BART station and then deftly run across the street, defying oncoming traffic, in order to avoid waiting at the crosswalk, located ten feet away.
On this particular morning as I’m waiting on the platform, I hear a woman scream something inaudible and then behind me, a man in his car is yelling out of his open window: “Yeah, fuck you lady! Fat ass!... Fat ass!” I guess he said “Fat ass” twice for added emphasis or in case she didn’t hear it the first time. My guess is that this woman had crossed the street and this oncoming car almost hit her, causing her to curse at the driver, who then felt the need to roll down his window and curse back.
It might have been more effective and dramatic if the car then sped away, leaving said “Fat Ass” (his words, not mine) in a cloud of smoke. But instead the car slows and stops at a red light, right behind me, when Fat Ass approaches my side of the platform. I know it’s her because she is still muttering angrily and slightly out of breath. She’s wearing this big puffy metallic silver jacket and has a long stringy brown pony tail with several unnecessary barrettes pinning the back of her hair. Excessive red lipstick accentuates a set of yellowed teeth that sit like a crooked stumpy fence in her mouth. She stands right next to me. As she turns her head away for a few seconds, I take the opportunity to inch away from her noiselessly. She turns her head back and doesn’t seem to notice the increased distance between us — about 3 inches. She paces around, apparently still upset about the run-in with the driver (who, as I mentioned, is still sitting at a red light right behind us).
The light turns green and I guess the driver says something to the woman as he drives away, because then she mutters back to him “Fuck you, bitch. Yeah, peace, bitch” or something to that effect. Is that why she was waiting on my end of the platform, pacing around like a caged lion? Was she waiting for her opportunity to say something mean to him before he drove away? Is that the best she could come up with? Why did they both feel the need to, in effect, say “goodbye” to each other?
I reflect on the absurdity of the situation as the F car finally approaches. I board and choose an unoccupied two-seater. As I sit staring straight ahead while the rest of the passengers board the car, I quickly realize my folly in choosing an empty two-seater as Big Metallic Silver Jacket Lady approaches me. I know she is planning to sit next to me so I instinctively smash the side of my body against the window, thereby creating a few more centimeters of space on the seat. She plops down next to me. I let her big shiny jacket ooze into the limited space. Clearly she and her jacket are taking up 3/4 of the seat (rather than 1/2). I try very hard to be still and concentrate on staring out the window. I make sure to not make any sudden movements. I try to blend into the background and take short, quiet breaths, so as not to awaken the volatile volcano seated next to me.
She takes out her newspaper and opens it up, thereby causing her poofy metallic arms to span. Her right arm is pretty much on top of my bag, which is serving as a makeshift arm rest/barrier. Her jacket is very shiny. My neck starts to strain as I keep my head locked at a 90-degree angle and stare fixedly out the window.
The ride along the Embarcadero is mostly uneventful, except for one instance when a few passengers try to exit through the front door of the crowded car. As they pass through the crowds, my seatmate mutters “Hey, watch your bag, lady.” She sounds irritated and offended. I wonder what she is reading and notice that she is holding a blue pen. My eyes dart quickly toward her newspaper. She is reading the Classified section and circling ads. I do not let my eyes rest on the page for fear that I will get swallowed in a dark cloud of puffy metallic rage.
Finally the next stop is Pier 39. Dark Puffy Cloud reaches over me and tugs on the line to indicate that she’s getting off. We arrive at our stop and passengers begin to exit the car. She slowly puts away her newspaper and pen as I wait for her to get up and move. I do not dare make any sudden movements that would communicate impatience. Indeed, if she had caused us both to miss our stop I would not have indicated any emotion or movement, despite the fact that I was running late for work. She finally gets up and walks toward the front of the car as I gingerly follow. I exit the car, inhale, then exhale — my first deep breath all morning.
*An alternate title for this post: "Why I Would Have Excelled at the Milford School"
On this particular morning as I’m waiting on the platform, I hear a woman scream something inaudible and then behind me, a man in his car is yelling out of his open window: “Yeah, fuck you lady! Fat ass!... Fat ass!” I guess he said “Fat ass” twice for added emphasis or in case she didn’t hear it the first time. My guess is that this woman had crossed the street and this oncoming car almost hit her, causing her to curse at the driver, who then felt the need to roll down his window and curse back.
It might have been more effective and dramatic if the car then sped away, leaving said “Fat Ass” (his words, not mine) in a cloud of smoke. But instead the car slows and stops at a red light, right behind me, when Fat Ass approaches my side of the platform. I know it’s her because she is still muttering angrily and slightly out of breath. She’s wearing this big puffy metallic silver jacket and has a long stringy brown pony tail with several unnecessary barrettes pinning the back of her hair. Excessive red lipstick accentuates a set of yellowed teeth that sit like a crooked stumpy fence in her mouth. She stands right next to me. As she turns her head away for a few seconds, I take the opportunity to inch away from her noiselessly. She turns her head back and doesn’t seem to notice the increased distance between us — about 3 inches. She paces around, apparently still upset about the run-in with the driver (who, as I mentioned, is still sitting at a red light right behind us).
The light turns green and I guess the driver says something to the woman as he drives away, because then she mutters back to him “Fuck you, bitch. Yeah, peace, bitch” or something to that effect. Is that why she was waiting on my end of the platform, pacing around like a caged lion? Was she waiting for her opportunity to say something mean to him before he drove away? Is that the best she could come up with? Why did they both feel the need to, in effect, say “goodbye” to each other?
I reflect on the absurdity of the situation as the F car finally approaches. I board and choose an unoccupied two-seater. As I sit staring straight ahead while the rest of the passengers board the car, I quickly realize my folly in choosing an empty two-seater as Big Metallic Silver Jacket Lady approaches me. I know she is planning to sit next to me so I instinctively smash the side of my body against the window, thereby creating a few more centimeters of space on the seat. She plops down next to me. I let her big shiny jacket ooze into the limited space. Clearly she and her jacket are taking up 3/4 of the seat (rather than 1/2). I try very hard to be still and concentrate on staring out the window. I make sure to not make any sudden movements. I try to blend into the background and take short, quiet breaths, so as not to awaken the volatile volcano seated next to me.
She takes out her newspaper and opens it up, thereby causing her poofy metallic arms to span. Her right arm is pretty much on top of my bag, which is serving as a makeshift arm rest/barrier. Her jacket is very shiny. My neck starts to strain as I keep my head locked at a 90-degree angle and stare fixedly out the window.
The ride along the Embarcadero is mostly uneventful, except for one instance when a few passengers try to exit through the front door of the crowded car. As they pass through the crowds, my seatmate mutters “Hey, watch your bag, lady.” She sounds irritated and offended. I wonder what she is reading and notice that she is holding a blue pen. My eyes dart quickly toward her newspaper. She is reading the Classified section and circling ads. I do not let my eyes rest on the page for fear that I will get swallowed in a dark cloud of puffy metallic rage.
Finally the next stop is Pier 39. Dark Puffy Cloud reaches over me and tugs on the line to indicate that she’s getting off. We arrive at our stop and passengers begin to exit the car. She slowly puts away her newspaper and pen as I wait for her to get up and move. I do not dare make any sudden movements that would communicate impatience. Indeed, if she had caused us both to miss our stop I would not have indicated any emotion or movement, despite the fact that I was running late for work. She finally gets up and walks toward the front of the car as I gingerly follow. I exit the car, inhale, then exhale — my first deep breath all morning.
*An alternate title for this post: "Why I Would Have Excelled at the Milford School"
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Phone convo with Dad
Yesterday morning I was enjoying my usual Monday off from work, when I suddenly remembered that it was my mom’s birthday. CRAP I thought to myself. Birthdays and holidays are really important to my mom, and I didn’t send her a card or anything. So I gchatted Chris, texted John, and called Dad. Their responses were “ahhhhhhh” “SHOOT!!” and “Oh My God Almighty...” respectively. So we all basically forgot Mom’s birthday. Dad’s excuse was that he was so fixated on Obama and the election that it overshadowed everything else. That was kinda my excuse too. So I decided to just get in my car and drive to Sacramento. On my way there, Dad called: “Ahhhh, Staf, I forgot to make the bed this morning... Can you go home and take care of that? Cuz Mom hates it when I don’t make the bed...”
So just now my dad called and thanked me for driving all the way out to Sacramento and saving the day. My mom was really happy I came home, even though it was just for a couple hours. Dad told me I saved us all from “shame, embarrassment, and degradation.” Phew! Dodged that bullet.
Highway to the Danger Zone
In the same convo, Dad asked if I was free this Saturday so that he and Mom could come visit me. They still haven’t seen where I live or visited my church in Oakland, and I’m pretty sure my dad sees my neighborhood as scary and dangerous. Last time they came to the East Bay, we ate at a restaurant in Piedmont, where it was nice and safe. So my dad was trying to figure out a good time for them to finally come this weekend: “Yeeeah, it gets dark so early these days... And we want to arrive at your place early enough before it turns into a danger zone...” Good thing they still don’t know about this incident.
No Friends
Then Dad asked if I cast my vote today. He asked what I was doing tonight and almost sounded envious when I told him I’d probably go out and celebrate with friends. I asked what he was doing this evening: “Yeeeeah...i’m gonna be all alone... Mom’s going to choir rehearsal, even though I asked her to stand by me...” How sad. Apparently, Mom told John that he wanted to have an election party at our house but then realized he had nobody to invite. Then she laughed derisively. Anyway, I’m sure my dad will be celebrating at home tonight, in his own way (glued to the TV with beer in one hand, cold cut sandwich in the other — standard fare when Mom isn’t around).
So just now my dad called and thanked me for driving all the way out to Sacramento and saving the day. My mom was really happy I came home, even though it was just for a couple hours. Dad told me I saved us all from “shame, embarrassment, and degradation.” Phew! Dodged that bullet.
Highway to the Danger Zone
In the same convo, Dad asked if I was free this Saturday so that he and Mom could come visit me. They still haven’t seen where I live or visited my church in Oakland, and I’m pretty sure my dad sees my neighborhood as scary and dangerous. Last time they came to the East Bay, we ate at a restaurant in Piedmont, where it was nice and safe. So my dad was trying to figure out a good time for them to finally come this weekend: “Yeeeah, it gets dark so early these days... And we want to arrive at your place early enough before it turns into a danger zone...” Good thing they still don’t know about this incident.
No Friends
Then Dad asked if I cast my vote today. He asked what I was doing tonight and almost sounded envious when I told him I’d probably go out and celebrate with friends. I asked what he was doing this evening: “Yeeeeah...i’m gonna be all alone... Mom’s going to choir rehearsal, even though I asked her to stand by me...” How sad. Apparently, Mom told John that he wanted to have an election party at our house but then realized he had nobody to invite. Then she laughed derisively. Anyway, I’m sure my dad will be celebrating at home tonight, in his own way (glued to the TV with beer in one hand, cold cut sandwich in the other — standard fare when Mom isn’t around).
Change is in the air
This morning I woke up feeling giddy and excited. I drove to my polling place bright and early, filled out my ballot sheet, fed it into the machine thingy, and received my “I voted” sticker — all with a big grin on my face. As I walked back to my car, I kept thinking all these patriotic thoughts. Cheesy phrases like “this great democracy” and “land of opportunity” kept going through my head, while patriotic music resounded in my imagination — in particular, “This Land is your Land” (sung by a children’s choir) and “God Bless the USA” (sung by a nameless cowboy with a mustache who plays the guitar and drives his Ford Chevy off into the sunset). Again, I experienced the surreal feeling of being surrounded in technicolor as I got off the BART and walked to the Ferry Building for my morning coffee. “No on Prop 8” volunteers stood by the Embarcadero and cheerfully waved signs at passing cars and pedestrians, who responded with supportive honks and friendly waves.
Indeed, there is a lot of hope in the air today. Even the weather feels hopeful — blue sky and fresh clean air after a week of gloomy clouds and rain. I know the metaphor of changing seasons is almost too cheesy to acknowledge but I’m in a cheesy mood. Change is coming and is here. There, I said it.
I have to say this is one of the few times that I feel genuinely excited about being an American. I guess there were moments I felt proud about my nationality while living abroad. I could boast of distinctly American things like Thanksgiving, or American football, or "Lost." But these are mostly cultural things, many of which are superficial. (Plus I don’t even care about football.)
I always distanced myself from American politics and either completely disengaged or felt shame at admitting my nationality. “Yes,” I would confess to people I met abroad. “I am an American.” [apologetic face]
But things are different now. I feel very fortunate that I am alive and can participate in what feels like a significant moment in history. I know no one president can fulfill everybody’s dreams and fix everything, and it would be dangerous to place all expectations and faith on one person. But I can’t help but feel elated and excited on this day, and I can’t help but sense that something momentous is happening. And it feels right to hope.
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