Day 54: Anthropological Field Journal, Day 4

I arose early today to head to the gym.  I arrived at the gym at 5:15 am (since I am two time zones to the left, I actually got to sleep in!), checked in, put on my lucky red workout shirt, and grabbed two not so ultra-plush hand towels to use during the workout.


Got out to the workout floor and started my routine.  Today is shoulders and back.  I am about half way through the workout when I am asked by a very well-to-do looking woman in her late 40s or early 50s to help spot her as she lifts some weights.  Being polite (as always), I agree and help spot her as she bench presses about ten pounds (honestly, she must have been the weakest human being within 2000 miles to need someone to spot her for the amount of weight she was lifting).  She finishes and says thanks.  I say no problem and then turn to go. 


"Oh, wait," the woman says, "I need some help with this one too.  She then starts another exercise, taking her sweet time as she lifts five pounds or so.  I am thinking, why on earth does she need help with this?  


Three exercises later, I finally say to her, "I am really sorry, but I have to finish my own workout now."


Without any warning whatsoever, the woman explodes.  "Well just who do you think you are?"


"Umm, I am sorry?"


"You heard me, jerk.  I guess I want to know what on earth I am paying for?"


"Well," I say, "I am not sure.  What exactly are you referring to?"


"I am referring to all of the money I pay to this lousy gym to have lousy personal trainers who are suppose to help me lift these lousy weights," she screams.


At this point, most of the people have stopped working out and are now staring at us.  Conveniently, just like the piano players who stop playing just before a bar fight is about to break out in one of those old Westerns, someone turns off the obnoxious music playing overhead, as if to allow everyone in the entire gym to hear what is going on.  


At this point, I connect all of the dots and realize that I am wearing a red shirt--just like all of the personal trainers at this gym do.  I think to myself, how on earth could anyone confuse me with a personal trainer?


"Uh, ma'am, I don't work here.  In fact, I am not even a member of this gym."


"What!?"  She asks, still screaming.


"I don't work here," I repeat.


As quickly as she exploded, she regains her composure, and says, "Oh."  She then walks off to another part of the gym, leaving me alone with about 40 people staring at me wondering what I could have done to make such a nice-looking woman so mad.  


I guess I should have been mad, but I have to be honest with you, a small smile crossed my lips as I finished my workout and walked out the door:  I may not look like a personal trainer, but someone did just confuse me with one.