Conversations in the Gym

Bicep curls, by Ron Burgundy.

Yesterday I was chatted up by the manager of the gym where I (sometimes) work out.

Cinco Pirouettas is a stout man in his forties who claims to have been a ballerino when he was young.  He spends most of his time talking to girls at the machines. He also bosses around skinny young men who appear to have never lifted weights before. He sometimes talks to mothers.

“Did you do ballet?” he asked me point blank one afternoon, about a month ago.  I was stretching on the floor. Yes, I told him, a long, long time ago.

He puffed up his chest. “I did ballet. How many pirouettes in a row could you do?” he demanded.

Whatever, I said. Two, three.

“Me, I could do five pirouettes.”  He spread out his fingers. “Five.”

I imagined a rhino slowly revolving.

So do one for me, I said. Now.

He laughed and walked back to his office. The sign on the door reads: Profesor de Gym.

Yesterday afternoon the gym was empty. It was just me and Cinco Pirouettas and a sweaty teenage boy with headphones on.

I was lifting weights. CP came over to offer useful feedback.

“No, no,” he said, pointing to my wrists. “Aquí.”  Lift to here.

I thanked him politely. I never ask his advice on anything. He doesn’t even show people how to adjust the machines so they fit properly.

CP took a step backward and looked at me, appraisingly.  Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean” was playing in the background.

“Disco!” he said, pointing to the battered speakers overhead. “Bailemos!”

He crouched down in fourth position and whipped around in a circle, arms gripping his chest.

He landed plop, after one turn. An arm shot out to steady itself on the weight rack, knocking over a couple of 1.5-kilo weights.  The sound was very loud in the empty gym.

One rubber weight landed by my foot.

I did not roll my eyes, I didn’t say anything sarcastic.

I think I just sighed.