The Picture

“Is this you?” the guy at Muv Fitness asked, as he attempted to turn his computer screen in my direction.  “It doesn’t look like you.”

 
I was on the other side of the counter and since his computer screen was more than 2 inches from my nose, I couldn’t see it.  “I don’t know.  I can’t see it.”

The guy, let’s call him “Chad” looked back and forth between the screen and me. “Yeah, it’s you.  I think.  See?”

I couldn’t.

Muv Fitness had recently acquired my Gold’s Gym.  Chad was trying to convert my Gold’s key card to Muv and had to be 100% positive that I was the person on the screen.

“It looks like you’re wearing a horse t-shirt,” he observed.   “Do you have a horse t-shirt?  But I’m not sure it’s you.”
 
“Must be me.  I’ve got a horse t-shirt.”
 
“But it doesn’t look like you.  Well, it kind of does.”
 
I decided to take the bull by the horns.  “Can I walk behind the counter and look?”
 
He said, “Sure!!”
 
When I got to the computer I screamed in horror.  

Yes it was me, but I looked like I’d just stepped out of a box under the thru-way where I’d been living for 5 years.

All I could say was, “That’s not a horse.  That’s the Beast,” pathetically adding, “From Beauty and the Beast.”
 
But in my head I was thinking about the countless numbers of Gold’s Gym employees who have been looking at that picture every time I walked through the doors of that damn gym.  And comparing the picture to me.  And probably thinking, "She must be here for her monthly shower."

Chad said, “You look way better now.”  He was trying hard.  He added, “You look like you’ve gotten in better shape,” although I’m not sure how he could possibly conclude that from looking at the head shot of a street person.

I said, “Would you mind taking a new picture of me?”
 
Chad willingly agreed.  (He most-likely realized that he would not only be doing me a favor, but those who would no longer be exposed to the original.)

My new photo was 10000000% better than the old one. 

Before leaving, I thanked Chad for telling me that I didn’t look like my picture.  

And for giving me a blog topic. 

Then I grabbed my grocery cart..

 and headed back home.

BodyFlop

I decided to start November off on a new leaf.  No more Halloween Candy!  I would eat healthy and exercise more. 

To that end, I checked out the class schedule at Gold's Gym.  There was a BodyFlow class at 3:15.

I read the description:

BodyFlow offers participants a chance to improve strength and flexibility while rejuvenating the body's systems.  Its movements focus the body's energy to relieve stress, reduce pain, and improve alignment.

Relive stress?  Reduce pain?  Sign my unaligned ass up!

I arrived at class a few minutes late, grabbed a mat and set up shop at the back of the room.

There were four instructors on stage, presumably in case three passed out (or away) during the class.  (I guess if something happened to the remaining one, the class- or what was left of them- would be free to leave.)

I lay my purple mat on the floor. Instructor #1 was in the midst of plie-ing, her hypnotic voice urging the class to go "deeper...deeper".   

I joined in the torture fun and we quickly advanced through a litany of motions requiring excruciating extensions.

My calves howled during the downward facing donkey.  Or dog.  Or some kind of damn animal.

But I persevered.

I made it through the warrior pose without falling over.  I saluted the sun (with my middle finger). 

Then came poses requiring balance.

Not just "stand on one foot" balance.  It was like "stick your left foot on your right thigh, then pull it above your head without bending your knee" balance.  

At this point I started giggling.

I decided to showcase my own balancing skills.  I set my feet shoulder width apart and patted my head.  Then I rubbed my belly.  To really impress them I lifted one leg.  

And tipped over.

 

As I got to my feet I noticed that the instructor was doing a lunge.

I can do that!  

I lunged forward.  Gracefully.
 

“Now, ease into a split, if you can.” 

So I did.  I split.

Leaving my purple mat behind.

Attempting Flexibility

To say my body is inflexible is a bit of an understatement. 

I clearly remember the day my dance instructor, Miss Imogene, attempted to get me to do a back bend.

“Reach for the stars!” she'd say in a sing-songy voice. 

I could do that.  I was four.  I was gifted at reaching for the stars.

“Now bend backwards.”

I would bend two, maybe three degrees.

Next, Miss Imogene would attempt to “help” by placing her arm behind my back and pushing me backwards.  

And it worked.  My back bent.

However, my legs went into the air as my body converted to a teeter-totter using Miss Imogene’s arm as the fulcrum.

It’s not just my back that is lacking in flexibility.  My legs open to a 45 degree angle. 

Max.

Let’s just say you won’t see me starring in any porn movies.  

I can just imagine the scene on the set. 

Director: “Lou, now place your left leg over Bruno’s shoulder.”

Being the professional actor that I am, I would.  My right leg would follow, possibly injuring Bruno’s jaw.

“Lou, leave you right leg under Bruno.”

I would return my right leg to its position under Bruno.  The left leg would follow clobbering Bruno in his manhood.

"CUT!"

And my porn star career would end.  Just like that.

But you know what?  I have just discovered a class at Gold’s Gym that may just change my life.  BodyFlow offers participants a chance to improve strength and flexibility while rejuvenating the body’s systems.

Finally.  After decades of being a stiff I will be flexible!  I could become a dancer.  Or a porn star.  Or a dancing porn star!

Decisions, decisions....

OMG.  I could be a Twerk Star!

Or not.

Oh What a Tangled Web

Linda said it was all my fault.  But it wasn't.

I mean, it's really not my job to remind her to bring a towel to the gym. And I did, in fact, come up with a scathingly brilliant Plan B: using her sweat pants to dry off after her shower. 

The problem was that she didn't want to use sweat pants to dry her hair.  So I suggested she use the B52-turbo powered hand dryer.  "Stick your head under this", I said, pointing to the most powerful hand dryer I have ever used.

“Hold on to your head, though, or it will end up in the men’s locker room.”

I guess Linda stuck her head a wee bit too close to the hand dryer.   She ended up with a B52-turbo sized dreadlock.

And it would not comb out.

It reminded me of Kimmy, during her "cave girl" phase.  She was around 5 years old and had incredibly naughty, knotty hair which she refused to let me comb.  She insisted on combing her own hair every morning...or at least the top layer of it.  

I know.  What kind of Mom would let her daughter go to school looking like Cave Girl? 

Me.

Kimmy would leave the house every day with a perfectly combed, wispy layer of hair which rested atop of a rat's nest that took on a life of its own.  Her hair seemed to grow, both in height and volume, by the day.  

It would inevitably reach the point where she would not be able to find even a wispy layer to hide the growing ball of tangle.  Only then I was able to get near her crown with a comb (resulting in trauma and drama).  I would spend upwards of an hour unraveling wads of intricately entangled dreadlocks while she screamed for mercy. 

In my defense, I’d be as gentle as possible.  And I tried to keep things light, “Oh, here’s that barrette you’ve been looking for…. And look!  I just found the math homework you said you lost!”  Kimmy saw no humor in these moments.  And I was not always successful.  Sometimes  I would have to cut out the dreadlock.

(Her kindergarten bald spot was barely noticeable by 2nd grade.)

Although Linda's dreadlock paled in comparison to those harvested by Cave Girl Kimmy,  it was, in itself, quite impressive.   This picture really does not do it justice. 

I started unraveling the tangle.  The problem was that Linda’s hair is quite long, and this dreadlock incorporated hairs from every square centimeter of her scalp.  I tugged.  I pulled.  I unraveled.  

Truth be told, it was actually kind of fun (for me), not unlike the 5-star Sunday Soduku.

Except, unlike the Sunday Soduku, this mission was impossible.

After about 5-minutes Linda was in a near frenzy, exacerbated by my locker room bellow of, “Does anyone have a pair of scissors?”

Someone from our Body Jam class had nail clippers which I used to removed the tangled tress.  Yes!!!

But Linda was not happy.   

"It could have been worse", I said, attempting to reassure her.  

 "At least I didn't need that chain saw I used to use on Kimmy."