Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop/play house/whatever and I figured that I may as well do something with my glut of free time. The gym with the nice baths is a five minute walk from where I live and I figured that I could join, take some yoga classes and work out a few times a week. It wouldn’t be too big of a deal. I may even meet some people and if nothing else I can soak in a nice warm tub a few days a week. Lose 10 pounds and that is one less sack of potatoes that I need to pedal around with me.
Susan, Solomon’s wife, signed me up and that was most kind as she basically has a great deal of pity for me. She takes the yoga class, so does Solomon on occasion, and she has agreed that afterward I can study a little Korean. Yoga, like many things including, table manners, war, sex, peace, love, death, etc., is something that I know about in “theory.” I have tried to struggle along with the videos and have browsed some books on the subject but have never had an instructor per se. So I follow Susan to the gym and she introduces me to the entire program. There are forms to fill out and who really knows what I signed; I basically put an “X” where I am told. We then have to meet Mr. Yu, the director of the facility. He will also be my new personal trainer.
He is short, solid, perfectly proportioned and seems that he could destroy my entire being without breaking a sweat. His posture is perfect and he seems to laugh a great deal. Wearing a black K-Swiss track suit he is welcoming but I am assuming that is simply a front to disguise his true nature as one who will tear down the spirit and then rebuild it in an image which he finds suitable. We enter his small office in the main exercise room and we all sit down. He immediately decides that there is no real reason to “test me” as he could pretty much see what he was dealing with as I sat in front of him . Naturally, his English proficiency is that of a three year old on cough syrup: limited and slow. Then again, my Korean is like that of a puppy on Prozac: happy and willing to please; but overall useless. I can see my future reflected in his eyes and “bleak” is the only term that comes to mind.
Susan and Mr. Yu discuss me as if I am not in the room. Well, it is more like I am this “thing,” a large water heater perhaps, which needs to be fixed. He keeps looking at me and saying things to her and she nods attentively. She says that “Mr. Yu can work with you” and he seems to be saying “big” a lot – big boned? – and all of this seems pointless as I am not really part of the process but I have to do something and there is little reason to be stir crazy unless it I decided that I have finally given up and vow to spend the winter becoming one with my new couch. There is a scene in An Infinite Jest where one of the characters wants to finally quit smoking pot so he scores a bag, some groceries, some high quality porn, pulls the curtains shut and waits for everything to simply run out, deciding that this will be an effective cure to his ills. I am a mess, but I am not quite there.
Susan and Mr. Yu decide that I will begin my new regime on Saturday because I will be doing yoga on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Mr. Yu pronounces my name in two distinct syllables (Ska – ta) and wishes me a good day. Over on the treadmill Susan spies the yoga instructor and quicly drags me across the room to introduce me to my new teacher.
She is tall. Fit. Not hard, bull dyke fit; but a soft, subtle kind of fit. She smiles and nods and it is clear that she knows very little English and I am once again reduced to being a physical object to be discussed- more Moore than Giacometti. Again, the word “big” seems to be one which is popular and I am transformed into this large putty-like being which, with much effort by all the parties involved, could, and I do mean could, be transformed into something resembling a human being. As it stands, I feel like the missing link.
She tells me, with smiles and a nod, that she looks forward to seeing me in the morning. At this point I am thinking that I would really like my money back and that, as there is a window which looks into the yoga studio from the street, I could better spend my time on a bench outside, smoking cigarettes and eating Cheetoes instead of getting both sweaty and embarrassed. Then again, who wants to be thought of as a pussy by Mr. Yu?
The following morning I show up and find the class. I am the only guy there. Me, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful women who can actually do the poses, is not exactly what I was hoping for. I can see my bench outside the window. It looks ever so inviting.
The class lasts about an hour and there were only a few poses that I couldn’t do. The language thing was aided by Susan who kept whispering instructions (turn over, the other leg, breathe, etc.) and if I became too twisted my new teacher would simply walk over, straddle me and push my body in the proper direction. Believe me, it hurt. It really hurt. I hated it. I don’t care how cute she is and I don’t care that they all clapped when it was over and seem to think that it was sort of fun to watch the uncoordinated American get into a couple of poses which landed him on his ass. As I watched the events unfold it became crytal clear that this woman, tall, flexible, toned was, in fact, trying to inflict great harm upon my person while pretending to guide me on some quasi-spirit/mind/body trip. My stomach was burning. My knees . . . Jesus, they were shot. And she is all smiles and there is this entire feeling of “good session ladies” and I am about to puke. To the right and left of me are women who are having no problem twisting and bending and I am feeling broken, shattered, humpty-dumpty on a blue mat. Then, when I am all crushed, she tells me, via Susan, that I did very good and that she looks forward to seeing me the following morning at 11 am. I nod and do the unthinkable; I say “thank you.”
The next day it is more of the same with me twisting in ways that make me feel like I am in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. I can’t figure out my instructor’s name but there are several instances of me thinking that I am in the proper position, that I am actually in control of the situation only to feel her hands grab my feet and push them into a place where I am certain that they were never designed to be in - a collision of matter and the fact that this shit really hurts. She moves them, muscles pulls and strain and I want to scream out . . . But I can’t. I have to “save face.” I have to enjoy my new tormentor. I bite my tongue and tell myself that this is good for me. I lie to myself and say “it builds character.” In this session there is another male, a 500 year old man, who makes me feel even more out of shape and pitiful. Ah, I am but a fool. A totally out of shape, whining and wimpering fool.
Saturday is my encounter with Mr. Yu and he sets me up in a little group of women doing more stretches. Mr. Yu, like all good tormentors, has minions and his, much like Ms. Yoga, seems to think that if he simply grabs my heels that I will have no problem going where directed. He’s high. His doc needs to change his meds. Something has to give and I am convinced that it is some muscle group, perhaps within my lower back. For 30 minutes this goes on, MR. Yu occasionally checking in to make certain that I don’t stroke out on his watch, and then the women again do the unthinkable – they applaud when it is over. They are all crazy!! This rat bastard just twisted them into horrible shapes and they thank him for it. Then, as I am heading towards the water cooler, Mr. Yu sets the down the one drink maximum and quickly guides me towards the treadmill. Now I am a goddamned gerbil. A thirsty gerbil at that.
OK, so it is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me and the women are wonderful to look at. But I feel so helpless as I can’t say anything without Susan around and she has other stuff to do besides aid me - she has a real baby, 27 month old Daniella to take care of. She got me in the door, she'll teach me some Korean. But after that it is up to me.
So I am alone. I need to learn words. Lots and lots of words. String them together to make sentences that work; that get me what I need. If I want to tell Mr. Yu to get bent (obviously not a good idea), I need to know how to do it. In order to do that, I need a text book. Susan told me what I need to find. It is the one that all first graders use. So much for telling Mr. Yu to get bent.
Have a Merry Christmas,
sh
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