You Win Some:
Previous posts from my previous blog, and I'm sure future posts on this blog, will highlight the fact that I don't have many "traditional" fears. My fears stem from things like people watching me pee from cameras in either the floor drain or ceiling fan in public washrooms. More recently I have been focused on my fear of elevators. Ryan and I recently moved into an apartment building where taking the elevator is often a requirement for us since hauling a 10 year old dog or arms loaded with groceries up to the sixth floor is not always an option. In the past when visiting friends who lived on the 9th or 10th floor of their buildings, I would opt to take the stairs, even if I was in heels in the dead of summer, traipsing through an unconditioned stairwell. The elevators in our new building caught my eye from day one. We were moving into the apartment on December 29th, and the licenses for the elevators were set to expire on January 15th. Utilizing elevators that were so close to their "expiration" was alarming for me. I'm not good with expiration dates. I seem to take them a little too literally in the sense that days before the expiration date, I'll treat the item like it's coated in the bubonic plague (yes, another non-tradtional fear. See?)
Not only that, but the licenses were a little suspect. Normally elevator licenses will have the logo/emblem of the Technical Standards Safety Association (sorry - here's the 'Safety' in me just comin' out!)- the organization who sets the standards for what makes an elevator 'ok'. These licenses did not have any such thing, and in fact looked like something the Superintendent had typed up on his home computer on January 14th 2009. (Although in discussions with other passengers where I spread my elevator paranoia by telling them about how an average of SIX people per year die due to elevator malfunctions, and how we could be 3 of those 6 in this elevator, right now, I discovered that these cheapo licenses didn't even go up until late March, which tells me that these were certainly impostor licenses.)
Something had to be done. Immediately.
The next day I contacted my dear TSSA and totally ratted my Superintendent out with an e-mail that read something like this:
"Dear TSSA Administrator,
I would like to bring to your attention the fact that my Superintendent is trying to kill me, or rather, trying to kill us all by posting phony-bologna licenses in the elevators. Even worse, he can't even fake it right, as the existing phony licenses are also expired. I strongly advise you to pay a visit to all buildings owned by this company, but please come to my location first. All those stairs might be great for my ass, but my husband likes my curves so I can't take these stairs forever you know. Also, please do not impose a serious fine on the building as I don't want to see the rental rates go up next year. If you must, impose a jail term in lieu of a monetary fine. Can you guys do that?
I was starting to get a little concerned when I never received a response to my eloquent e-mail. Then I started to get pissed. I mentioned DEATH in the e-mail - if that doesn't warrant a response from these people, I'm not sure what will.
On the verge of writing another notice to them about the ongoing neglect and compromise of lives and sanity in my building, I walked in the elevator last week to find this:
I'd call that a win.
You Lose Some:
At the end of January I caved in and joined the gym, which as my post from that time will tell you, it wasn't something that was wholeheartedly planned. Being a new location and all, it only opened for business at the end of last week, and they wasted no time with me, no time. Friday was the first day open for workouts and they had me in there right after work Friday afternoon meeting with a trainer for the dreaded assessment. This time was a different experience though. Last year they tried to tell me about the benefits of training, but of course only after breaking down my spirit and making me feel equivalent to that big fat thing from Star Wars.
This year however, they brought out the big guns. I met with Christa at 4:30 and for about 2 hours she totally led me on. At first it seemed like she was genuine when she said that I seem to know what I'm doing (or rather, what I should be doing) - and I was optimistic that when I told her training was not going to be for me, she'd be more accepting of it knowing that I have the knowledge to handle things on my own. She was merely playing along and trying to manipulate me into believing she was an actual empathetic human and not a sales-obsessed leech. I was unaware of this when the physical assessment took place. She stood by me talking to me like she wanted to be friends while I pedaled away on the little bike with the mounted TV on it. She laughed when I complained about how the guys hovering around the mats were just trying to get a good show when I was doing push-ups and planks and my shirt hung down to the ground. She even spoke with a lot of "if's" when going through what she would do for me as my trainer "IF" I were to decide I wanted one. She told me she'd be very excited about working with me. Then she stabbed me in the heart. She brought out the big guns. Christa? Is evil. This little doozy eliminated the need for Christa to break my spirit, as this was easily completed when it provided me with a print out of my stats (BMI, Body Fat %, etc) - it was essentially a souvenir of my fat. After seeing my numbers I thought to myself "Shit, I need a whole team of trainers!", and so we talked her numbers. Her numbers were higher. Apparently, our dear Christa has some pretty high standards, and the price tag to match. She required a minimum of 48 sessions with me, at a cost of a mere $3000. Then, she told me that realistically she would need to see me 152 times in a one year period - for the door crashing price of $7500.
Sorry Christa. I may hate my fat, but I hate giving you my money even more. You lose.
According to the reviews, this is designed to keep one motivated and offer guidance during weight loss endeavours, blah blah blah. Sorry Christa, I have replaced the need for you with a $30 book.