GIFTS FROM THE UNIVERSE

I do love what the universe sets out. I have to teach 18 classes on Saturday, Sunday and Monday (dear god, I wanted to die at the prospect of that) and so I was having a bad day yesterday (Friday, April 27). Cranky and bitchy, I dragged my Brazilian Angel to the gym. I had to drag her because she hasn’t really been up for the gym but she’s clearly got that extra, angsty energy you get when you haven’t been working out but normally do.

So, I dragged her to the gym, got a card for my class with my favorite Tank-built trainer and then forced her to take a card for any class (she chose Latin Dance while I chose Spinning with my short but not small Tank). For her not to give up, I had to slap a happy face on but, frankly, I didn’t want to do anything but hide in my apartment until Tuesday is here and I have a week’s vacation.

As much prodding as she needed, I was not going to take the Latin class with her as I really, really needed Tank. If the thought of a class with Tank was daunting, the thought of a class without Tank was downright insurmountable. Tank’s ability to stay happy, focused and energetic absolutely saves me. That he’s built in the stockier, tank-like way I’m accustomed to in the West, makes me a bit more comfortable being as noticeable as I am in his class. Frankly, I stick out like a sore thumb and most of the time I hate being in the class with the lithe, poetic bodies of people who work out not to feel great and kick some ass but to look slim and lithe. I just don’t relate to that mindset. There’s nothing wrong with that mindset, I just don’t relate to it. I work out for one reason and one reason alone; to feel amazing.

I love the way athletics make me feel. I love the way I feel powerful after a notably hard session. I love the way it feels to be the most powerful person in the room. I love knowing I have conquered myself. I love the way it feels to give it my all and come up against something or someone stronger than me. I love the way it feels to have control over my body and, most of all, I love the way my muscles ache as they let me know I’ve pushed them to their limit. I just feel sexy when I’m going to bed and my muscles ache and feel tight from a day’s exertion. There’s something about knowing that my acts of consent or submission must be hard earned and cannot be demanded by just anyone. It’s the same feeling I get when I conquer an intellectual issue or have a particularly articulate argument.

That it makes my waist smaller or whatever genuinely means nothing to me. I know it’s what most people focus on but it’s just not where my head is. That it makes me “pretty” or “attractive” is simply not incentive enough for me to get up and fight. I have always understood that I will never have the kind of petite body that could be called “lithe” so I never even think to join the club. I can’t have “lithe” but I can have “power.” “Lithe” just isn’t relevant to my life the way that “power” is. Consequently, most of the trainers here, with their discussion of “fat burning,” “slimming,” etc., don’t move me. I’m not captured and I certainly can’t transcend the suckitude that is runner’s wall for mere vanity because I know that there will always be someone more beautiful, more slim, more youthful, more well-dressed, more… “whatever” than me but there will never be anyone more “me” than me. So, why fight a losing battle when the consolation prize isn’t even for me but for those who choose to look at me (which I would really rather they didn’t in the first place)?

Tank, however, is all about the sheer joy of it; the ecstasy of the agony. He blares the kind of music you can’t help but move to and his cries of joy push me through the staggering heights of runner’s wall. He is the kind of athlete I relate to and I feel that kinship despite the fact that we have no common language. (It might be overly obvious to state but we bonded over our mutual love for the movie “300” [which he loaned me because he mentioned it and I got all excited] in which the Spartans kick some seriously oppressive ass.)

Consequently, everyone at the gym knows that I take one kind of class; Tank’s. I don’t even have to ask anymore for the card for his class (you must have a card to be admitted to classes); they are merely handed to me upon entry. If I don’t know he’s got a class, he finds me and lets me know that there’s an extra card that’s been saved for me. And, it’s gotten around the gym clients that Blondie’s taking Tank’s classes.

In a sea of exotic, exquisite faces, “common” becomes “uncommon.” So, Tank’s classes are now filled to capacity with a waiting list because the Westerner is there. I sit quietly in the back of the room while the rest of the group (predominantly men now) peddle on their bikes and take every opportunity to stare at me while we work out.

Which bugs the hell out of me.

There’s nothing I want less than to be stared at like some science project while I’m gasping for air, sweating profusely and grunting like a woman close to climax. I don’t want to have to think about the way I look. I’m not very good with vanity (that’s not to say I’m not vain; I just tend to freak out when it occurs to me I should be “pretty” because people are watching) and to be worried about vanity when I’m trying to focus is truly bothersome. And, if it weren’t for Tank, I’d never join another class again. But, I really, really like Tank so I’m willing to overlook the mortification factor and simply lose myself in the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Last night, it was made very clear to me just how much Tank wants me in his class, which, to be totally honest, never occurred to me. I mean, I knew his classes have become the most successful because all the men want to stare at my cleavage when I lean over but I never thought about Tank thinking about me. I really like Tank but I never really thought about the fact the he sees me more than any other client at the gym. To be honest, it should have, as I am taller than most of the men, look decidedly Western and am inordinately loud but it just never did occur to me.

Normally, I don’t understand what the instructors are saying. I just watch what they do with their bodies and follow. But last night, I suddenly did.

“Er” was hollered in Chinese and I started to translate it into English as something else came through. “Second position” was hollered over the sound system.

It took me a moment to realize I didn’t need to translate that sound and as I looked up, Tank was looking at me, smiling. I smiled back and dropped down to the second position.

Then we took a moment to recover when the second position had wiped us out.

Tank gave a long monologue about what the proper positions were, the benefits of the workout and how to most effectively use your body for the various steps of the work out.

“Okay, Christina?” filtered over the sound system.

“Okay” is “okay” in Chinese. There is nothing that sounds like “Okay” in Chinese and it means the exact same thing in Chinese as it means in English. So, when I hear “okay” my mind slides into the calm state I feel only when speaking Western languages. I simply nodded without looking up.

But then I could have sworn I heard my name, so I looked up and Tank was smiling at me again.
“Okay?” He asked again.

“Yup, that was aimed at me but how the hell does he know my name?” I wondered as I nodded my head enthusiastically. “I must have misunderstood something he said. He said something that merely sounded like my name.” My students, on many occasions have tried to explain what the sounds of my name mean in Chinese but they haven’t managed to completely convey themselves.

Our class continued on with the flat-out psychotic driving periods followed up by the recovery moments and Tank continued to say things like “Sit down,” “Okay” and then something that sounded like “Christina.”

It was a damned good class and it managed to exhaust my body as much as my mind has been exhausted by the overwhelming quantity of work I’ve had to do.

After we finished, I went to hang out and wait for my Brazilian Angel. I watched her dance class from the glass windows of the studio and I could tell that dance was exactly what she needed. Just as I am Spartan in terms of physical outlets, she’s lovely and romantically feminine, in terms of physical outlets, so I knew the dance class would be the perfect thing to pull her out of her funk. I need to be physically abused in a workout just like she needs to be physically expressive. It was wonderful to see her relaxed and focused for the first time in several days.
We slowly sauntered back to the locker room and she took her shower as I got changed (I shower at home; frankly, I can’t shower in front of a lover much less in front of a bunch of women who make no effort to hide the fact that they’re openly staring at my circus-sideshow-freak body) and waited for her. I sat there, listening to the music Tank had just played in class on my iPod; I love that he reminds me of all the great music I’ve got.

When my Brazilian Angel finished her shower and got dressed, we headed out. I was feeling intensely relaxed but certainly unnoticeable in my baggy jeans, wife beater, sports bra and no makeup when compared with the chronically stiletto-ed, fully-glittered, bejeweled, fake/pushup bra boobed, perfectly coifed and flawlessly made-up exotic beauties pouring in and out of the locker room.

“Christina!” I looked up at the sound of my name; sure I had heard it but also sure that I knew no one who would be there to call it out.

“Damn it, I need to find out what ‘Christina’ means in Chinese.” I thought.

“Christina!” Tank called out as he came running around the corner. He said something in Chinese to me that I totally did not follow.

“What did you think of the class?” My Brazilian Angel translated as I realized he was actually saying my name and not something that sounded like ‘Christina’ in Chinese.

It took me a moment to catch on, first thrown by the actual usage of my name and then as I had no idea why my opinion would matter. However, I looked at Tank and the nervous anticipation in his eyes clearly allowed one answer, “Faicheng hao” [Excellent]. Frankly, I love his classes and am willing to brave my nightmare (being the center of sexual attention in an anonymous hoard of men) to attend them.

He was really happy to hear that and then he explained that next week he’d be changing up his music and he hoped that would be okay.

“Of course, I love your music.” I explained in English as my Brazilian Angel translated into Chinese.

With that, Tank started beaming. “…love your music” he repeated to himself a couple of times to remember the words.

And then, ever so sweetly, my Tank stumbled forward after the two of us departing and said, “Bye bye” as he waved. In that moment, I realized what a lucky girl I am that, despite the (relative) suckitude of the exhaustion I’m struggling with and the unsettling position of “anonymous sexual object,” I’m the recipient of quite a lot of lovely attention from men I admire and respect. A girl really can’t complain about that, so thanks, universe.