Mickey Z

Cool Observer

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Saturday, February 10, 2007

The life of a muscular militant

(It’s Storytelling Saturday...drop down and give me 20)

Once upon a time...

So, there I am…on my way to the subway to head into the city and work with some kickboxing clients. Upon reaching the turnstiles, I encounter the guy who gives out copies of Metro each weekday morning. It’s a free daily newspaper and seeing it on my way to train clients can make me a little stressed because I occasionally pen op-eds for Metro. That means my decidedly non-mainstream perspective—and my photo—are on display for millions of New Yorkers to peruse. So far, none of my clients have seen me (probably because they don’t ride the subway) but that doesn’t mean my double life has gone completely unexposed.

I train three women in their company’s building gym. This arrangement requires me to check in with the doorman...or is he a concierge? It’s funny that you might insult a concierge by calling him a doorman much like the whole flight attendant/stewardess thing. Anyway, doormen display three basic behaviors towards personal trainers. The first and most common is indifference. Secondly, they relate to us as fellow blue collar common people saddled with the same fate: serving the well-heeled. Lastly, in a futile attempt to align themselves with a winner, some doormen look down their noses at us. This was the case with a certain concierge until he saw my handsome face in Metro.

The guy was flabbergasted when he read a little something of mine called “Re-Examining Rumsfeld’s Ratio” (which talked about, among other things, the United States unselfconsciously using “Apache” helicopters to quell “ethnic cleansing"). A political junkie, he now saw me as an “expert” and fell all over himself to shake my hand and introduce himself. My new friend could not get enough of me. One morning, after I had finished my training sessions and was passing through the lobby on my out, he called me over and pulled out a legal pad. Believe it or not, he had written notes to remember all the things he wanted to ask me.