Clowning Around

Every office has a clown. Generally a person earns this label by putting plastic fish in the water cooler or removing the ink cartridges from all of the pens in the office. Less often does the person in question actually dress in multi-colored polka-dots, sporting KISS make-up and disproportionately large shoes.

My office has that kind of clown.

There's this guy, Norm. Norm works in Compliance, which mostly means that he has very little sense of humor. I mean, even less than normal insurance people, whose best attempts at hilarity involve one too many “So a salesman, an actuary, and an adjuster walk into a bar…” jokes. (Seriously. I was in a meeting the other day, and the speaker made another one of those jokes, and everybody laughed like they were watching an anti-drug PSA by Barry Bonds, and I just looked around and said to myself, “Where am I?”)

At any rate, Norm is a strikingly surly and sarcastic man. He's ornery. He is not a person whose sense of humor makes other people comfortable. A simple “Good morning, Norm,” will earn you a rather biting, “Who says?” and if you try to shake this off with a wan and slightly uncomfortable smile, you’ll get, “What are you smiling at? Don’t you have work to do?” followed by an excruciatingly long pause before you turn back to your work.

Once I tried to head him off at the pass by thinking ahead:

“Morning, Norm.”

“Who says?”

“Who says what?”

“Who says it’s a good morning? Nothing I’ve seen today qualifies this morning as ‘good.’”

“I didn’t say ‘good morning.’”

“…”

“I said ‘Morning, Norm.’”

“…”

“It is still morning, isn’t it?”

“Are you new?”


My plan didn’t give me the last laugh so much as the last lingering moment of awkwardness, so I decided from now on I would just not talk to Norm until after noon. My point is that Norm is not exactly swimming in rainbows and puppies, so I was quite taken aback to learn that he is a professional clown.

Yep, Norm the Clown. He went to Clown School to get clownified, presumably received a clownish degree in Clownism or Clownology or some such thing, and does clowny things on weekends. At the office, he doesn't wear the get-up, which (since I've been scared of clowns ever since I was a child and my parents hung a terrifying painting of a manic-looking clown on my wall that made me forever suspicious of people with red hair and white skin, sabotaging several friendships with Irish people) is really best for everyone. I’ve seen pictures of him from the circus, and he is almost as intimidating there as he is at the office.

His clown name is “Haystack.” Sometimes he answers the phone in his clown voice, and he just…won’t…drop it. It freaks me out, and never fails to make me look around for hidden cameras.

He's also really short. I wonder if there are height regulations for clowns, in order to fit as many as possible into a small car. I'd really like to know that ratio.

On one of his benevolent days, I asked Norm his professional opinion on why so many people are afraid of clowns. He said, quite decisively, and without hesitation: "The make-up." I guess this begs the question, why continue to wear the scary make-up? But I’m scared enough of Norm without his make-up, so I’ll leave someone else to broach the subject.

Also, he said, when Stephen King's It was made into a movie, it dashed the reputations of clowns everywhere. The profound disappointment in his voice was funnier than any clownish thing I've heard him say. I wonder, when he approaches small children or twenty-something graphic designers at the circus and they run screaming to their mothers, if he turns his face to the sky and shakes his fist, yelling, “Damn you, Mr. King! Damn you…!”

Ball bearings.

I’ve had some (concerned) inquiries about the continuing saga of Leah the Fitness Nazi, and my interesting combination of sadomasochistic and homicidal gymnastic tendencies.

Leah herself is just fine, I’m sure you’re relieved to hear, and has not been entered into the Fitness Protection Program as of yet. Partly contributing to my softening feelings toward her is the fact that over the last month, my workouts seem to be a little less suicidal than when they first began. They haven’t gotten easier (in fact, they’ve gotten progressively more advanced), but my body has grown more accustomed to its new routine, and I’m quite a bit stronger. While I’m still pushing myself to exhausting limits, the next day I no longer feel as though I wandered into an Iron Maiden that was two sizes too small. I daresay that I look forward to my workouts while I’m sitting behind my desk at work, and days that I can’t get to the gym make me a little stir-crazy.

So you could say that my new fitness routine is starting to agree with me. I don’t know if having a personal trainer is absolutely essential to such a drastic lifestyle change, but I do know that it somehow causes some part of your brain to regress in such a way that you always want to please your trainer, like a puppy. It’s a little embarrassing how pleased I felt when I was able to tell Leah that I had increased some of the weights on my own when I felt they were getting too easy. That good feeling dissipated a bit when she looked at me and smiled as if she were mentally patting me on the head while plotting new ways to bring me to my knees in pain, since the weights clearly weren’t accomplishing that anymore. I practically saw the moment when her pupils turned into little exercise balls and a light bulb appeared over her head.

Exercise balls are really an all-over workout. They can be used for any number of “looks easy, doesn’t it?” exercises, with the added benefit of keeping you so distracted at the thought of losing your precarious balance that you spend your entire set imagining a Rube Goldberg-esque chain of events that starts with the ball suddenly flying out from under your weight and sailing toward a display of Power Bars and ends with several broken windows and a really pissed off Spinning class.

Leah had me spend some quality time with one of those balls today. The exercise involved a sort of push-up with my hands on the ball, and my feet out behind me. I thought this was fine. She asked me to keep the ball out in front of me, rather than directly beneath my shoulders. I thought this was a nice challenge. She asked me to make sure and keep my hands (and weight) on the top of the ball, rather than angled toward the front. I thought this might be harder than I anticipated. She asked me to raise one leg off the ground while doing it. I thought I heard angels crying. She asked me to do three sets of ten of these. I became suddenly positive about the angels, and I think I may have actually seen one or two.

I saw this really terrible horror movie once where a basketball would roll into a room all by itself, accompanied by ominous music, and when it had cornered a person up against a wall, it would be hurled with unseen hands toward the person’s head, smashing it like a pumpkin on Halloween. I’m pretty sure that role was originally written for an exercise ball, but the exercise ball had a better agent.

So yeah, I hurt again tonight, but I’m comforted by the fact that today marked my almost-one-month anniversary with Leah. She took my measurements again, and smilingly informed me that I’m losing inches all over the damned place, and that I had lowered my Body Fat Index by four percentage points. “You should put this on your fridge,” she said as she handed me the printout. I wondered briefly if any of her clients ever actually hit her, and then scolded myself for thinking such thoughts, mostly because I’m pretty sure she can read minds.

What I’m most pleased about, however, is the knowledge that I’ve moved up a little on the ass-kickage pyramid. I’m stronger than I give myself credit for, and feeling stronger every day. I’m a long way from being able to take Leah in a fight, but I’m pretty sure I can handle that chick on Treadmill #5 who always wears those ridiculously long, dangly earrings during her workout, because she apparently got distracted on the way to her cotillion.

I would love to see what Leah could do with that girl.

A message from the management.

Dear frustrated blog commenters:

I’m sorry Blogger is retarded. Keep trying.

Kisses,
Meldraw

Hey, Captain Demando: Shut it.

I’ve been told my time between blog posts is too long.

In the last week, I’ve gotten several emails, IMs, and the odd (ahem, Kevin) blog comment from people who seem to have a more than a passing interest in the goings on of my life, and frankly, it’s a little creepy. An inordinate number of people want to know the latest on my job, my car, my health, and my hobbies. I’m flattered, of course, that people actually go out of their way to care about these things, but I’m also beginning to wonder KEVIN if these people have lives of their own to care about KEVIN and I am impressed that said people would be so demanding of a person to contribute to a blog more often when they themselves do not put forth a similar effort KEVIN. Especially when such people KEVIN do not leave a single comment on my blog, ever, KEVIN until they suddenly decide that the comedy factory’s not hitting its hilarity quota and get all bratty and insistent about it KEVIN without even saying, “Hey, I like your blog. I read it regularly. Good work and all,” and skip straight to being a demanding demander with comments like, “Get with the funny.” Hey, Captain Demando: Shut it.

My less-than-delicate response to such comments appears to have guilted said commenters into creating their own blog, wherein apparently the first order of business is to issue me a Blog Challenge Smack-Down. (Well, and also to strive desperately to be as cool and funny as me, and fail.) I don’t really know what that means, except that I think I’m supposed to post more often.

In all honesty, I’ve just been busy. And also a little too lazy to mold my most recent experiences into a cohesive comedic structure, but mostly busy. I know I’ve neglected the blog a bit, and I owe my faithful readers a more regular blogging schedule. I promise I’ve got heaps of interesting things to talk to you about, but they haven’t quite made their way into my word processor yet. Patience, children.

For the teeming masses who are on the edges of their seats wondering about my life and its every little detail, I offer you a quick glimpse at my daily morning routine, and hope it is enough to stave off the gnawing hunger for more morsels from Meldraw Land:

4:30 am: Groggily open eyes to see a giant cat face, two inches from my nose. Shut eyes tight, hoping cat will go away. Hear an extremely loud MROWR in left ear. Push cat off the side of bed and smile after hearing the resulting thud. Go back to sleep.

5:50 am: Radio alarm goes off. Do not wake up, but instead begin to dream about the morning deejays laughing self-importantly at their own jokes while riding a carousel and knitting a scarf made out of onions.

6:00 am: Cell phone alarm goes off, in the kitchen. Must drag ass out of bed to shut it off. Know own tendencies well enough to know that I will soon need to install a third alarm elsewhere in the apartment.

6:05 am: Shuffle over to coffee maker, eyes still closed. Push lots of buttons, hoping caffeine will come out somewhere, and stumble blindly into the shower.

6:20 am: Stand in front of closet. Wonder what to wear.

6:25 am: Continue to stand. Continue to wonder. Look down at cat, who meows loudly for no reason. You have plenty of food. Go away.

6:30 am: Stare into closet without really seeing. Begin to ponder the effects of synthetic dyes on the cotton industry. Blink. Give up on clothes and go back to the kitchen to set up caffeine IV drip. Ignore meowing feline.

6:35 am: Retreat to bathroom for hair-drying and make-upping. Cast half-hearted glance into closet. Wonder how it’s possible to not have anything to wear, and yet consistently run out of hangers.

6:50 am: Look at clock suddenly, in a panic. Throw an English muffin into the toaster and peer into empty refrigerator, looking for lunchy foods to bring to work. Wonder if half a flour tortilla, four baby carrots, and a box of baking soda constitutes a well-balanced meal. Shoot a warning look to the Cat That Won’t Shut The Hell Up.

7:00 am: Turn on the Today Show and putter around the apartment, still unwilling to commit to an outfit. Glance at clock and finally settle on something—anything—because my workplace has a strict No Shirt, No Shoes, No Insurance policy. Decide that enough caffeine has not been consumed in order to deal with Katie Couric. Turn off Today Show.

7:10 am: Write the phone number for the Humane Society in large red letters on a Post-It note and stick it to the cat’s food dish.

7:15 am: Grab work bag, gym bag, travel mug, wool coat, long scarf, purse, keys, and cell phone. Momentarily consider life as a Sherpa. See cat staring pathetically. Sigh, drop bags, and give cat a very squeezy hug and kiss. Spit out cat hair. Leave.

7:20 am: Drive to work. Shiver the whole way.

7:30 am: Arrive at office. Wonder how the travel mug could be empty already. Make a beeline for the lounge’s coffee maker and hope nobody speaks to me until Friday.

Killing me softly. (And by "softly," I mean "Holy Mother of God.")

I walked into the 24-Hour Fitness gym next to my office last Thursday with the intension to grab a membership price list, take a quick look around, and perhaps consider the remote possibility that I may one day convince myself to willingly raise my heart rate.

I walked out with a membership, five sessions with a personal trainer, a box of intriguingly disgusting meal supplements, and a vague sense of unease. I was nearly $400 poorer, and I had no idea what just happened.

How they managed to sell me a new lifestyle in kit form, I’m not exactly sure. My memory after I walked through the gym’s freakishly heavy doors is a little fuzzy, but I do recall something about a suspiciously charming “Fitness Counselor” named Travis. It’s possible that I handed over my credit card for the sole purpose of seeing Travis put on a ridiculously adorable pair of glasses as he input my membership information into the computer, but I can’t be sure.

Regardless of the grounds for my sudden fitness gusto, I was determined to see this thing through. I scheduled my first personal training session for that Friday. My new trainer’s name was Leah, and I foolishly thought we could be friends.

Leah is, as I found out on Friday when we met for our first session, extremely nice. She’s petite, unassuming, and generally agreeable. When she asks you to perform an exercise, it sounds like a reasonable request, and it’s not until later that you realize you can never, ever be friends. Friends don’t make other friends want to remove large portions of muscle and place them in a bathtub filled with Novocain for six hours.

Leah started me out with some very simple strength exercises. Those of you unacquainted with the experience of weight training under instruction might be interested to learn a scientific fact about the process. Just at the point when you’re nearing the end of your set, and the pain in your muscles has begun to scream its arrival, and you fantasize about how nice it would feel to be suddenly struck by a falling piano, something strange happens to your trainer’s voice. Somewhere between the words “doing great” and “just three more,” the trainer’s voice lowers about four octaves, much like when you slow down the playback of an audio tape to resemble a person in the throes of demonic possession. Coincidentally, you can also hear a deep, maniacal laugh, and you suddenly notice for the first time that the trainer’s eyes are glowing red. This is universal, and applies to all trainers.

After our little get-together on Friday, I realized that I had misplaced all of my major muscle groups. Where there was once living tissue, there was now only warm whipped cream. Walking down the four steps that descend into my apartment, I developed an unhealthy attachment to the railing, and felt ashamed for taking it for granted all these years. It wasn’t really pain that I felt, but an utter lack of supportive tissue.

The pain came the next day, of course, when every last bit of whipped cream was replaced with a delightful assortment of thumbtacks and caltrops. The muscles were back, and with a blinding vengeance. I had promised Leah that I would return to the gym the next day to get in a cardio workout, and since the gym scans my ID card every time I walk through the door, she would know if I lied to her.

Therein lies the real value of having a personal trainer: it is an excellent incentive to exercise. It helps to know that despite her petite and amiable exterior, she can soundly kick my ass in a myriad of different ways, and is licensed to do so in 48 states. At the very least, I often want to run away from her at a swift pace, toppling children and handicapped people in my haste, and that’s good cardio.

So, Saturday found me back at the gym, clinging for dear life to the cross-training machine, fearful of the wrath of Leah. I was afraid my body would mutiny at another day’s exposure to the gym so soon, but I was pleasantly surprised. Comparatively, after the previous day’s session with the weights, my cardio workout felt rather like jumping into a sea of chocolate and frolicking around a bit.

I took Sunday off, and spent the day recuperating and fantasizing about intramuscular narcotic injections.

I managed to bring myself back to the gym Monday after work (I even walked! In heels!) for some more cardio. I began to feel like I could get the hang of this regular workout thing.

Then, there was Tuesday.

Tuesday, yesterday, was Session #2 with Leah, and was the first time I noticed my homicidal feelings toward her. My second weight training workout was significantly more difficult; she gave me more movements to do, increasing the number of exercises from four to fifteen. Each exercise is done in two sets of fifteen reps, sometimes for each leg/arm, which, according to my calculations, results in about 900 reps in all.

900. Nine hundred. Nine-zero-zero.

I learned several things yesterday. Chief among them:

• I have way, way more muscles than I thought I did, in places I never knew existed. And every single one of them will eventually give out if I piss it off enough.


• “Okay, let’s work on your core” is trainer-speak for “have you ever wondered what it felt like to be shot in the stomach? Then follow me.”


• Exercise balls are not toys.


• There are days when even my new favorite railing that lines those four steps to my apartment will do me absolutely no good. And there are days when I will not be able to control the speed or grace with which I descend those stairs.

I hurt today. I suspect I will hurt everyday for the rest of my life, or at least until I finally murder Leah. But even as my arms ache and my quads cry silent tears, I am getting ready to walk over to the gym for some quality time with the elliptical machine. I don’t know what keeps me returning: some secret masochistic tendency? A genuine desire to embrace my health? An honest fear of a small, chipper girl in Adidas?

I wonder if Travis is working today.