I have abandoned my practice, my routine, my diet, my heart.   I have lost the connection to the part of me that begs to be authentic.  My quest for my truth continues.  I search and explore other aspects of my depths that I lost ten years ago when I dove in to a life surrounded by image obsessed masochistic elitists.   Did I become that as well?  Its raining today.  I have no desire to walk into a gym. No motivation to dive into the idea of creating muscle and burning fat and sweating and losing my breath and listening to juice heads grunt or women complain about their fat asses, cheating husbands and c-sections that made their stomachs look like bowls of jello.  I think it's that on my days away from the asylum I long to be disconnected to anything that remotely feels like this sea of insanity that I swim in.  My question is what is that makes me authentic that after I lead a practice that I can not even go to anymore that people come to me and tell me that I bring them "there" that I touch them in away that inspires them, the words I utter resonate.  They sense my authenticity.  I am lost yet I have direction.  But, I feel as though my path is so crowded with so many bumps and obstacles that I get caught up 10 feet behind where I should be..... My hours are not long enough yet they exhaust and drain me ... my days are incomplete yet so full.   What inspires me to write this?  To be this honest?  I think it is that I don't want to be alone in this....... I don't want to believe that I am doing this for nothing.  If I write this to you, the reader, then I exist.

Then and now

Somebody asked me yesterday if I had to, would I start all over again in this industry?   My answer was no.  I would not want to have to build up a name and a client base...... or prove myself all over again.   To feel absolutely out of place and new.  The industry was different back then....

To be a manager was like being a rock star.  Everyone drove corvettes or Camaros (IROC Z), had sex in the locker rooms after hours, and indulged in a variety of substances... most of the time, during work hours.

Steroid freaks with arms as big as a house were the role models. There was no such thing of being nationally certified, no functional workouts, no such idea like corrective exercise.  It was all about getting big and competing.  Even the women were body builders with big hair and bulging muscles and of course a set of implants.  

Everyone man aspired to have bigger biceps, bigger calves, a huge neck and a fake tan.

Then:                                                                                           Now:

Hi-Low Aerobics Playlist                                           Cycling Playlist                                

Hooters- And we danced                                                  D.J. Tiesto - Traffic

Lime- We're gonna love tonight                                      Flow Rida- Sugar

The Cars- Shake it up                                                        Black Eyed Peas - Boom Boom Pow

Robert Palmer - Bad Case of Loving You                      Lady GaGa-Poker Face

Bonnie Tyler- Holding Out for a Hero                           Pitbull- I know you want me

Kenny Loggins- Footloose                                               Pink- Sober (remix)

Madonna- Burnin' Up                                                       Deborah Cox- Beautiful U R (Remix)

Q-Feel- Dancin' in Heaven                                              Kerri Hilson-  Turnin' Me On 

Mad About You-Belinda Carlisle                                   Pussycat Dolls - When I Grow Up

Goodbye to You- Patty Smyth                                        Green Day - Know Your Enemy

Those were the days... I long for scrunched up socks, Avia or Ryka aerobics sneakers and my purple bike shorts with a printed thong leotard to match....

How much it has changed. Step is a thing of the past.  Lululemon is what everyone wears.  Yoga is the trendy thing with the japa mala beads and tree of life pendants.  The housewives even have lower back tattoos that are yoga inspired  poking out of the hard-tail roll over pants.  

Then                                                                               Now

Big Scrunch Socks                                    No show socks

Avia, Ryka, Reebok                              Nike, Puma, Adidas

Champion Sweatshirt                   Triple Five Soul Zip up Hoodie

Bike Shorts                                 Boot Cut, low rise, roll over pants

Thong leotard                                  Deep V Tank, or Sports Bra

Big Bangs, bleached blonde                Smooth straight locks

Boom Box or disc man                                       Ipod

Dodge Stealth, Corvette                     BMW, Range Rover

What has not changed......

Sex in the locker room

Substance addiction

Trainer/Client affairs

My Current Blogging playlist...

1. Love Story - Nadia Ali

2. Beautiful U R (soul seekerz radio edit) -Deborah Cox

3. All the Above- Maino

4. Sugar- Flo Rida

5. Funny the Way it Is- Dave Matthew's Band

6. Mind Control- Stephen Marley

7. 100 Stories (down tempo mix) - Andrea Burns

What's on your ipod?

3 Questions

What taste lingers?

What residue remains in your heart?

What stains are left on your imagination?

Copy Cat Blog: 10 Honest Things about Me

I am currently suffering from bloggers block with images and words that float through my mind during the times of a day when I cannot write.  Like when I am counting reps for my clients or in a studio in front of 40 people trying to get them to align their bodies properly and to forget about what they can't do well and focus on what they can.  All of the stories come out in camp fire like tales when I am in session with a client who is curious about what it is like to be a trainer.  A trainer who gets to listen to the rantings  of all the overindulgent folks in a wealthy suburb.

So this entry idea came from a blog I am following.

10 honest things about yourself....

1) I am honestly not as patient as I appear when my clients tell me I am so kind when they can't get the simplest movement and I tell them it's ok. it's normal to forget what you did a minute ago.  I am usually thinking "Are you f*&!$ing kiddin' me?  I just did ten reps my self so that you could see it again and this is our third set!!"

2) I often fantasize about a different life in another state or country about 25 times a day... No agenda except for a ritual of watching sunsets into twilight(my favorite time of day) on the beach.

3) I regret never continuing to learn how to speak Italian and Spanish....

4)My two alter egos: 1)D.J. at an outrageous lounge.  2)Race Car Driver

5) The one thing I wish I could change about myself.... Fear, I wish I could eliminate it.

6) A lot of my nightmares consist of work.  Oversleeping and having a packed class waiting for me.  A crazy trainer trying to kill me.  Images of giant spreadsheets. Stuff like that is what haunts me in my hours of rest.

7)I love McDonald's, Taco Bell, and Cookies and eat them more often than a trainer should. 

The secret is: That most of us in the fitness industry either have horrible diets, don't work out, smoke cigarettes, drink excessively or have some other substance addiction.  The truth is, all of us have addictive personalities and are egocentric masochists.    Think about that the next time you reach in your pocket to throw a hundred bucks down for someone to motivate you to live a healthy life.

8)I miss dancing every day and  wish I could be on Dancing with the Stars.  

9)Secretly wish I could be the next trainer on the Biggest Loser.

10)Everyday that I wake up, I am grateful that I have a new day awaiting me.

Do you ever wake up and say is this the life I really want to be living.  Am I indulging enough? Am I enjoying it as much as I possibly can?  Am I seeing all that I can? ...... living all of my seconds mindfully, fully aware and conscious of the moments.   Is this as good as it gets?  The past year of my life has had an echo in the background sounding those words as my theme song.  

Do I want to stay chained to this industry where the reality tv shows make up the monotony of my day.  I know the desperate house wives, and the trainers that can be put on those silly lifetime reality shows. Or whatever ridiculous channel it is that hosts the under qualified dramatic faces that pretend to know fitness.  The trainers with the big mouths to hide the lack of education, because all they know how to do is put a client on piece of equipment and count to ten.  

Then you get to the backstage staff... I say stage because it is a show every day.  That's made up of a management team.  And there you find the real show.  These are the folks who don't want a real job. They don't like offices and paperwork.   The so called corporate job.  They are looking for a career change.  The fitness industry appears glamorous. Pretty faces, seductive advertisements, beautiful hard bodies, the list goes on.  It's enchanting until you find your name on a business card and yourself in front of a computer with a spreadsheet filled with numbers laid out in front of you. 

The realization is that this is something corporate, glamour fades, the body softens, and there is nothing beautiful about it.  David Bowie's anthem Under Pressure, is the song that plays when you walk into the room. It's all you feel.  You long for a frozen alcoholic beverage with an umbrella sticking out of it and a tropical beach to match and for your body to look like it belongs on one of those fitness magazines.

Today I walked through my memories.  In search of a good story for my blog.  

So, here comes the cast of characters:

On your right, you find Tony.  He is the ideal for the house wife who gets no attention from her overpaid hubby.  Not too tall but, ripped up, dark hair, dark eyes, motorcycle, innocent smile hiding the motive.   He's slept with half of the woman in the gym.  One of which gave him a little present. The innocent appearance, big blue eyes, and lamb like smile from Mary hid her secret well.  She has more miles on her than a 57 Chevy and left him with a pretty little STD.

Then there is Sadie, she has 3 kids, white picket fence, dog, 1.5 million dollar home on the water and a husband that loves her.  But love stinks and she's in love with Tony.  Who's in love with Lacy.   Sadie stalks him. Watches him from the elipticals, from the step mill, on the stretch mat. Waits in the parking lot.  Let's every other female in the club know to beware.  He can give her nothing.  Her husband can give her everything.........everything that she does not want.  

Now if you look ahead you will find,  Sheila.  She's an area manager of sorts.    The underfed, blonde, with a tacky wardrobe consisting of purple polyester suits.  She and Tony are one in the same in many ways. Ideal exterior, empty interior, lack of any design in the personality department.    The only difference is that Tony could only keep up with one sexual escapade at a time.  Sheila would have four desserts at once.  She loved to sample.  Some are club members, others are staff.  Never going outside of our environment to shop for a more worldly flavor.

To be continued.....

Pasta with Broccoli, Chicken Sausage and Sun Dried Tomatos

Tasty Pasta Dish in the making..

What you will need:

1) 1 pound of whole wheat pasta (I like Rotini)

2) Extra Virgin Olive Oil

3)Sun Dried Tomates (about 12 chopped)

4)Broccoli Fresh or Frozen

5)Chicken Sausage

(Nature's Promise Sundried Tomato and Basil)

6)Fresh Thyme about 2 sprigs

7)Butter or Butter Substitute

Remove sausage from casing. Cut into 1 inch peices. Brown in pan with about 1.5 tablespoons of E.V.O.O.

In a small sauce pan, add butter (substitute), E.V.O.O.,

garlic, and pinch of kosher salt and saute until soft. Add Chicken broth and fresh Thyme.

Boil Pasta. Be sure to add a pinch of salt to the water for extra flavor. If using fresh broccoli clean and steam. About 20 minutes. Frozen broccoli works just as well. Remove and drain pasta from boiling water and place in a large bowl. Add broccoli and chopped sundried tomatoes. Toss in Chickens Sausage and sauce.

Sprinkle with Peccorino Romano grated Cheese. Enjoy.

TASTY TURKEY TACOS

The Meal

The Turkey

How to make:

Turkey Chili Ingredients:

1 pound of Organic or all natural Ground Turkey Meat

Adobo seasoning (to taste)

Chili Powder 1/2 teaspoon

Dried Oregeano 1/2 teaspoon

2 capfuls apple cider vinegar

Tomato Paste 1-2 Tablespoons (enough to cover the meat)

Extra Virgin Olive oil (about a table spoon)

Brummel and Brown or Butter 1 teaspoon

1/4 Onion chopped

1/4 Red Peper chopped

Toppings Include:

Sliced Black Olives, 1 Avocado Chopped, Organic Salsa, 2% Shredded Cheddar and Shredded Part Skim Mozzerella. Organic Blue Corn Taco Shells.

Cooking:

Brown Turkey meat in a pan using olive oil and butter (substitute)

Season with Adobo, (eyeball it. About a teaspoon), chili powder, and oregeano.

After meat is browned add in tomato paste. *Add onions and peppers.

*In seperate pan or before browning turkey, place onions and peppers in olive oil and saute until translucent. Set aside.

Fill tacos and chow.

Sunday morning..... raining.. the noise never stills in my mind. Not even a brief second of peacefulness and calm. It is like the A.D.D child bouncing off the walls inside my head.

Disorganized thought: What am I having for lunch? easy answer hummus, roasted chicken multi grain crackers, peas, and corn. A handful of Teddy Grahams and black coffee to keep me from devouring a giant Canoli after dinner tonight.

Where would you be if you could be anywhere but here? Another easy answer, Rome, Italy. Maybe Capri.... The images haunt me everyday. The strong desire to speak Italian as if it was my native tongue. To taste and smell the life of someone who holds no schedule, no agenda.



Yoga was packed this morning and my teacher sprang to life like I had not seen her in over a year. Do you ever catch a glimpse of someone when they are truly vulnerable and alive. It's quite beautiful. They don't even realize that you recognize it. Their essence pours out of them. It's as if their spirit is overflowing. I go to a studio far from where I work. A place where I am just a student not a trainer, or an instructor, no management title, or a sign that reads sounding board across my chest, not taking the form of a punching bag for disgruntled members with outlandish complaints. "Like the soap is too harsh. The towels are not plush. The toilet paper is too rough." "The cycling instructor talks too much. We have been "spinning" long enough we don't need someone to tell us what to do."

Today the question the teacher asked was "What are you feeling? What do you need?" All of the possible answers that she rattled off, resonated within. Anxious, scattered, happy, tired. I was everything this morning. My desire and my need, one in the same. To wash myself clean of all that I hang on to. And of all that hangs on to me. I feel my fear sitting there. It has taken up residence deep within my heart and decides to throw a raging party from time to time that lasts for weeks.

They say the fear of falling out of a pose, for instance a handstand or headstand stems from the fear of death. I say all fear stems from the fear of death. It such an all encompassing fear.
Death holds such a stigma of sadness. At one's death, we forget to celebrate their life. We overflow with sadness. A selfish sadness because we are left with out.

Then there is a fear that we will not complete all of our hoped for future accomplishments.
The fear of how or where or what we leave behind. The fear of who we will lose.

Part of the Yogic practice is to over come such fears, such sadness. To embrace, to accept, to empathize. To live out our inherent freedom.

Someone once asked me to define Asana or Pose. What it means to take a pose.

Answer:
To make a statement with the language of the body. To put forth a stoic external expression of the internal stirrings and happenings.
To create a living, breathing sculpture that is a cultivation of emotional and physical anatomy.

Feedings of a Gym Rat (MENU)

6:30AM Breakfast 1
Peanut Butter on Sprouted Bread (toasted), Black Coffee, Skim Milk

10:30am Breakfast 2
Granola and Greek Yogurt (Yum!)

1:00pm 1st Lunch
1 Turkey Burger, Green beans and Corn (maybe a touch of salt)

3:30pm 2nd Lunch Hummus, Rice Crackers, Cheese Stick, Apple
More Coffee!!!

My friends compare me to a hobbit with my eating style.

7:30pm Dinner
Whole Wheat Pasta with Turkey Bologenese (add pecorino cheese and crushed red pepper)

Turkey Bolognese Recipe
1 Pound of all natural or organic ground turkey
For extra flavor can add hot Italian sausage crumbled
3 cloves elephant garlic chopped
1 yellow or white onion (4 shallots are a nice substitute) chopped
1 can of tomato paste
1 can of crushed tomatoes
1 can of peeled tomatoes (I like Sclafani San Marzano)
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Fresh Basil
Dried oregeano
Kosher Salt
Pepper

Saute Onions/Shallots and Garlic until translucent remove and set aside
Brown Turkey and Sausage in olive oil and butter, add italian seasoning or oregano, salt, and pepper
Add Tomatoes, tomato paste and sauted garlic and onions
Add fresh basil (and extra seasoning if necessary)
Let it boil down for approximately 1 hour.

Keep in mind that much of the seasoning is to your taste. If you like more or less garlic that is optional. Sugar is not necessary as the onions are sweet.

Trenches of the Cynical Gym Rat’s Mind

It’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm day. I feel grateful for being able to breathe in and smell the air today. Which for some reason always reminds me of kindergarten on the playground. And I am gently tossed into my past for a brief moment when all my worries were what to watch? Thundercats or Heman. What snack should I have? Cheeze-its and milk or apple slices with chunky peanut butter? Not that those decisions no longer exist. Trust me I still ponder what I am having at my next feeding… but, now it is more or less which bill should I pay first, which crazy person should I call back who has a million and one complaints for me today.
Do you ever notice that the silence sometimes gets so loud that the sirens in your mind blare full blast. The traffic spans the length from San Francisco to San Diego. It’s like a 20,000 car pile up and the mess will take days to recover from.

You remember the promise to your toes of a power wash and fresh paint and to your soles that ever needed reflexology.

Your rhomboids screaming for that elbow to be dropped in and your shoulders thirst for that massage oil to melt away all of the tension that resides in them.

Your fantasies are not about being on an island in a far off tropical place but, they are about cheeseburgers and fries, milkshakes and chicken wings, tacos and nachos and pizza with toppings. And visions of little fried drumsticks dance in your head. You feel so deprived and get sick of the dry chicken and vegetables, that the idea of eating clean and a six pack escapes you.

Now you remember, that you promised yourself 5 hours of Cardio, 3 hours of weights, 4 hours of yoga, and 2 hours of Pilates this week. And you punish yourself for every cookie that you think of and smell.

The laundry list of items gets longer every time you cross one thing off. You find yourself treading faster just to stay afloat.

Your best client forgot that she was meeting you at 6am on your day off so you stand there waiting staring aimlessly into space.

The phone rings and now you have to rush in to the gym to teach a boot camp class in 8.7 minutes and you have not prepared anything not even the music. You don’t even teach boot camp.

The therapist appointment can’t get here fast enough because you need to lay on that couch and divulge all of the secrets and rantings that haunt you every day.

The dirty dishes call for you to rescue them from the sink.
Your scattered pile of laundry gets tired of waiting and walks itself over to the machine.

The computer coerces you to pour your heart out so the little lettered keys can translate the cries into metaphors and confessions.

If you were to ask me what a regular day in my life looked like this wouldn’t even scratch the surface. The above diatribe is just a peak inside my mind before 9am.

Extraordinary (Possibly Disgusting) Occurrences

Here is a brief list of weird occurrences that I have compiled. All gym related. It’s really a work in progress. The list grows daily.
*Child eats its own feces in the babysitting room
*Ecoli strikes. Pool closed.
*Power Outage strikes the whole northeast and the members refuse to leave the gym that is located in a basement without natural light.
*Unidentified Man smears his own feces all over the walls of men’s locker room and leaves some samples in the steam room as well, for extra fun.
*A gentleman strolls to the front desk to borrow the computer to check email in his robe and slippers. He stays a while.

Dancing Queen

Ok, so I am not referring to the awful ‘70s song by Abba. I am referring to Sasha. The lady with the soap in her eyes from previous ramblings. Yes, she appears in many of my days. Four to five times a week to be exact. Not only was I trapped in a paid hour of "therapy for her jiggly ass," but she would haunt me in the locker room, the local bar on Saturdays and a variety of other places that I considered off limits. She wanted to “get the jiggle off.” That was her goal in life. When I meet a client we go through the assessment. We create a list of goals, long and short term. The jiggle was an absolute catastrophe in Sasha's little bubble. I really was not sure what “jiggle” truly was. So, I was not the only person enlisted in this operation. The plastic surgeon played a major role in this drama. He had the courage to work with this woman frequently. The “jiggle” as Sasha spoke of often was sucked out of her ass and inner thighs and was then injected into her scary little face. Isn't that a pretty picture?

1:00pm
Sasha’s Monday afternoon appointment. No sign of her yet.
1:10pm
First phone call placed to Sasha. No answer. Keep in mind, I arrived at 5:00am. Shift ended at 1pm. Nap time and snack scheduled for approximately 2:05pm.
1:13pm
Eyes feel heavy, stomach is digesting itself. The thought of a pillow and blanket luring me in. Knowing that if not for this appointment my destination would be reached earlier. 20 minute waiting rule for clients in most fitness facilities.
1:17pm The arrival of Sasha.
The excuse today was a good one. She was dying her hair. Her hair was constructed out of extremely long extensions that reached her surgically altered bottom. In this process , the hair at the crown of her head got burned by the bleach. She arrived sporting a punk rockesque faux hawk at the top of her head with the remaining locks still long and mostly bleached to crayon yellow.

Wednesday Night Session Scheduled for 4:30pm
We are at this point approaching 4:59pm no answer, no returned phone call. No sign of Sasha.
5:30pm Next client arrives. Session complete. Still no word
It is now 7pm. Midway through third scheduled client.
Picture the setting. An average gym during a prime time hour. I am in a uniform shirt with Trainer printed on it. Black pants and running shoes on. My client by my side, 5’7 black hair cut to her chin, lean and athletic, mid pull up, Sasha runs across the gym floor “I’m here, I’m here.” Now, 7:01. I turn my gaze to my watch then to Jeanette, my current client, back to my watch then to Sasha. Exemplifying a look of pure confusion. “I’m here.” She repeats it as if it is going to change the situation. My gaze changes to a glare. “I am in a scheduled session Sasha….You did not show up for yours.” Stunned she peers back at me through red eyes. “I got shampoo in my eyes.” Taken back by the lack of creativity of some emergency excuse that would cause a two hour delay, I respond with “Seriously?! I am in a session. I cannot train you now.” Needless to say this did not go over well. Because in the land of Sasha, time stands still for her.
She proceeded to call me a “little bitch.” I thanked her for the compliment and dismissed her with a simple “Goodbye.”
Of course this was unfortunately not our final encounter. No where near it.

Beauty and the Brain

Around “The Gym” we referred to him as “the Brain” Not for his pretentious attitude and intellect. It was in reference to the abnormally large, abstract structure that rested upon his shoulders. He pranced around the club in extremely close fitting cycle shorts. This was specifically so that he could display his goods. Thick coke bottle glasses with black frames decorated that strange object that he had for a head. He had an acquired accent. One that seemed of his own making rather than one that he grew into because of his origins. He claimed to be from some far off land and he had a strange name to prove it. Yet none of us really bought it. We just figured his parents didn’t love him and gave him a name like Kujawa.
He slithered across the floor and through the local watering holes as if he was the second coming of Christ. As if all should bow to him. Ferociously seeking out the next piece of ass to line his sheets with.
The beauty was very unique and intricate. Her name was Sarah. Quite challenged when it came to the male species especially when Kujawa was involved. I of course was her psychologist aka trainer. I listened to the ranting and cries of Sarah when she arrived to have found that he had been sleeping with the exotic waitress from the restaurant down the street. And of course she would take him back. On Tuesday nights, I would go to the Ristorante. A local joint on a street that was filled with eateries and bars. Like many of the other nearby places, in the summer, it had out door seating and plenty of live entertainment stomping around. Many of my coworkers would join in on the festivities. So Sarah had this little tiny problem…… She liked the bottle just a bit too much. Sometimes would even take a few sips before her workouts. That always made it more interesting. On one of the above mentioned Tuesday evenings, Sarah was out an about. Myself, and Ty, one of the other trainers, were sitting outside of the Ristorante. Ty also trained Sarah. Our phones began ringing. She was on a binge and Kujawa was out, his exotic lady friend was in tow. She was quite beautiful somewhat plain in style and elegant in her movement. Her features were what made her exotic. Thick black curls flowing down her back, huge almond like dark eyes and tanned skin. Slinky body with curves like an hour glass. Sarah did not fit this mold so Kujawa was sampling a different flavor for the evening. Sarah of course spotted them while in one of their regular haunts. It began a whirlwind of excitement to say the least. Ty and myself had met Kujawa and Kianna when they were in route to Bickford’s Bar. Sarah had a stool with her name on it. She was taking up residence that night. The fireworks began and down the street she stumbled, hobbling and hopping would be more like it. And holding her wrist with a twisted expression upon her pretty little face. Turns out that Sarah had actually fallen off the bar stool wrenching her ankle and then proceeded to fall off the sidewalk into the street when she left the bar. It was not til she sobered up that she got an x-ray to find that she had a little fracture in her wrist and a sprained ankle. Now we can’t place all of the blame upon Kujawa but, some responsibility should be taken. He had the audacity to go to the bar where Sarah had a long term lease on a stool, with his new toy and then to top it off introduce them.
It’s been years, I have since switched places of employment, destroyed a good number of cell phones and completely lost contact with Sarah and Kujawa. One could only imagine that the charade would continue with whomever they find themselves entangled with. Sarah chasing after a guy who can not commit. Kujawa moving through each woman like shit through a goose.

A Day In the Life

It's snowing. I think this is the worst winter we have encountered in quite sometime. A slushy, icy debacle at least once or twice a week. Not only does it reek havoc on my travel adventure, it effects my wallet. Many of my house wives refuse to walk out in the white treacherous stuff or drive five minutes when I am traveling on a highway for 45. Not that I am bitter.

7:15am
The alarm clock goes off for the 26th time. I hit snooze and oversleep. Exhaustion has set in. My eyes our drenched with red, my hair a scraggly mess and in need of a flat iron. My tummy grumbling and I need my daily does of mud filled with caffeine to help me make it through the 12 hour downward spiral into my own personal hell. I have 18 minutes to complete this mission.

7:55am
I am racing to the highway cursing every single jackass that cuts me off in their over priced, gas guzzling SUV. I make 3 phone calls, paint my eyelids at every stop light and flip through every radio station at least ten times before I press the little CD button. Only to have the option to listen to 12 songs that were played in one of the very last spin classes I taught. I choose to listen to a little DJ Tiesto. Song fittingly named "Traffic." It provides a soundtrack for my ride.

8:31 am
Lights out. Ipod set up. "Good morning. How is everyone? Any injuries residing in your body, please let me know as I walk around, we don't have to have a group discussion. Please lie down on your mat, close your eyes and turn to your breath.”

9:25am
Draw your awareness back to your breath. Witness the rise and fall of your belly. Begin to reawaken slowly and come up to a comfortable seat. Fold your hands together in front of your heart. Bow your beautiful faces in honor of your body. Take a moment and have gratitude for the gifts that it just provided you with. I thank you for sharing your practice with me. It was an honor to witness. Namaste..." I bow toward my class. Clad in mala beads, patchouli oil soaking their skin. Off the mat they step. Into a day filled with consumption, gluttony, oblivion and mindless action.

9:30am
Ex-Dancer (not the kind that danced for dollars) strolls into my studio. Removes her Uggs. Plops onto the reformer. Our conversation consists of Quinoa salad recipes, cholesterol issues of various family members. The kids' illnesses and college struggles. The session flies by. I look forward to seeing her when she arrives weekly. She truly enjoys the practice, never complains and thoroughly entertains me. She is a family woman, lives somewhat comfortable, believes in fidelity and the wholesome goodness of tasty food, family gatherings, and the simple pleasures in life.

10:30am
The tall blonde slinks into the room, coffee cup in hand. (smells like French Vanilla) At this point I am dying for my second dose. "Good morning." I utter. Awaiting the first disaster to spew from her tonsils. I know it's coming. What could it be today? The saddle bags that hang from her near perfect ass, her golf swing is not as powerful because of the way she slept, someone gave her the finger when she was leaving Starbucks. No, no that's not it at all. The airlines made a mistake and accidentally cancelled ….. “My trip to Dubai!“ She exclaims. Her 6th trip of the season. She spent 45 minutes on the phone and missed her morning Kickboxing class (ruining her entire day) that she rushes to right before her session with me. Leaving her a sweaty mess when she arrives. I often wonder why my clients assume that I want to touch their un-pedicured, calloused, stinky, sweaty hooves. Would it kill them to shower or at least show up in dry clothes instead of leaving my apparatus covered in their slime.

11:15am
Kale and Veggie burger quickly inhaled between my day of the Real Desperate House Wives (live version).

11:30am
The graceful, precise mover walks in. Much to my surprise. (new client) goes to show that you can not judge someone by their workout garb. When I gazed upon my next victim. I had no idea that she would be completely proficient in the practice arriving in old worn in attire. Many of my ladies arrive with nail polish to match their purple top, socks, and hair tie.Some how the clothes make you an official expert of the trade. The real deal so to speak.

12:30pm
Time for my third feeding. A little home made cup of chicken and brown rice soup. Race to get an oil change and arrive back in time to find that my 1pm has cancelled. Why you ask do they cancel? Well some days it is 3 children throwing up in their shoes, car, on the dog and in ever crevice of the house. Other days, it is the cable company giving them a 6 hour time span. So that they can install cable in the bathroom so that they can watch the workout channel in the bath tub. Exploding toilet bowls, cheating husbands, lunch or play dates with friends. Lunch dates is one of my favorites. They remind me that they cannot work too hard because they just ate and don’t want to get sick on me. Shopping for a 200,000 dollar Ferrari. The usual stuff. I once had a client many years ago show up 2 hours late for a session because she was washing her hair and got soap in her eyes. I think that was the best excuse I ever heard. This client, shall we call her Sasha. Proceeded to proclaim that I was the biggest bitch because I was training another client and refused to be interrupted during that session to listen to her unfortunate mishap.

2:00pm
My favorite kind of session. Two ladies. House wives of course. Self proclaimed bored house wives. Who live in the underbelly of riches with hired help and husbands who are never home. They have the to-do lists, 2.5 kids, dog, nanny, housekeeper, school drop-off, pick-ups, nail appointments, Pilates, Personal Trainer, Yoga on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Lulu lemon, Hard-Tail pants, and absolutely no purpose in of all. I work so hard to never fall into this pattern. I don't want to live the dream of f*cking my sexy 23 year old trainer, behind my husband's back. While I spend his money on diamonds in hopes that he won't notice that 1500 dollars is missing from his account, and ring up $350 every couple of weeks to get my hair done. Weekly $1000 sprees on the latest meat market attire so, I can be voraciously ready for my hidden encounters with the super fit and horrifyingly empty "trainer", while hubby is at work, and little Mary and Marky are in school or at the playground with the nanny.Of course I get the full scoop. Husband is away. He's "sailing" in the Caribbean. Is that what they call sex with the secretary these days? Big boobed, botoxed bombshell that answers phones in his office goes on a little "business trip" with the boss. Sandra at home only too happy that he is out of her way for the week not scrutinizing her spending money and escapades to the gym. She is rather attractive, dark hair, busty and slender waisted and as tall as a giraffe. There is sadness in her eyes. She is not one of those ladies I described taking part in extracurricular activities. She's too sweet, too honest for that. Ana, her friend and workout buddy, is fiercely aggressive. In need of constant stimulation. Exclaims how bored and disgusted she is with the life that she leads. I give her credit. She is at least self aware. Instead of being in denial and getting her head examined twice a week. She knows what gets her.

3:00pm
Race back to the garage to pick up the car. Dropped $250 on new headlights, mirror, and oil. Grab the coffee I had longed for.

3:20
A little downtime to check emails."Hey, you gotta minute?" I hear a colleague slip into my office. "I guess so. What's Up?"I answer in hesitation. What could this possibly be. Which one of my employees played awful music or cued a bad class, didn't make someone sweat enough? I wait with baited breath. "Can you go to this special event and schmooze with some of the locals? We are really close to hitting and maybe you can talk some folks into at least checkin out the place if not joining."This means that I will get home well after 8pm. I can barely make it through the rest of my sessions and paperwork now I have to be friendly."Sure. What time do I have to be there?" "6:30pm. You're the greatest!"My 4pm client arrives. Last session of the day. One more ranting, sob story. It might sound negative but, I prep myself for it when I walk into the studio. I brace for impact upon arrival every day. If it is not my clients, then it is my co workers, if not the coworkers it is the other 2465 members and if all else fails and all is good at work then something is sure to go awry at home.

5:55pm
I race from the club to make it to the live music event and schmooze with the locals. The place crawls with the wealthy women of the area who have the night off from cooking to play fitness queen and drink fresh squeezed juice with a hint of rum and parade around in the latest styles. Wait did I say that they have the night off from cooking? I meant that they give their hired help the night off and the seat at their favorite watering hole has a break from their skinny ass sitting in it hitting on the local bartender.

Making of a Gym Rat

People have told me that I should write a book with all of the stories I have. I always laugh and say "yeah, someday maybe I will." How many times have you either said or heard that?
Afterall, everyone has stories. Everyone, has got something to say. Who has the time to write a book?

Any how, my story begins 7 years ago...actually really 23.5 years ago. When I was a little tyke going to watch on the sidelines as my mom went and jumped around like a maniac. Not that she was the only one. There were at least 30-40 other ladies just like her. 30 somethings, brightly printed leotartds and leggings with thick socks, head bands, big hair devouring the headbands of course, and it was that typical "Jane Fonda" aerobics at the local community center.
I guess you could say my fascination began there.

I would watch and try and do all of the grapevines and pivot turns on the side of the gym floor. I had little visions and hopes that I too could do that someday. I wanted to lead the parade of insanity with loud music and women coming to exercise with full makeup and fighting over "their spot."

So, that being said... my mom dropped me into dance classes so that I could take my first steps into organized movement. By the time I was 11, I was competing in amateur dance competitions and going to aerobics everyday with my mother. I too became part of the parade of insanity, even wore the outfits.

It was not until the age of 21, when I needed a major change in my life, did I seek out a career in this addictive industry. I say addictive because it attracts obsessive compulsive lunatics, alcoholics, steroid users, coke heads, nympho maniacs and anyone else that is egocentric, type A control freaks who are driven by vanity. Not to say that everybody fits into this cookie cutter. But, 90 percent of the people frequenting your local meat market, not excluding the staff of course, would definitely fit into that mold. So, what's the appeal you might ask... It makes for an interesting ride with plenty of scenery.