Balls

When I was young I figured I would grow up to be an actor.  Or a professional Ballerina.  Or a nun.  (Nunhood was a fleeting ambition cut short by the unhidden laughter of my sister and parents.  I'm pretty sure that what I meant was that when I grew up I wanted to be Julie Andrews and spin around in the Swiss Alps and then marry Mr. von Trapp... like so many nuns do.)  I had been told that actors don't make a lot of money and that even modest-paying jobs are hard to come by.  I was prepared to struggle.  I was right to...

But money was never my top objective.  I waited tables in the mid-90s and while I enjoyed the easy and immediate cash it yielded, I was never driven by money.  As the dinner rush passed by and business slowed, I would frequently ask to be cut and sent home.  We had this deuchey manager who used to respond:  "What, you don't like money?"
Not as much as I like sitting my tired little butt on the couch and watching Friends and Seinfeld back-to-back, no.
Perhaps I would have stayed later and worked harder if I had seen myself entering the restaurant industry on something of a long-term basis, but of course I didn't.  I knew that waitress jobs and dozens of jobs to follow would remain safely in a category I would consider "side-jobs," while I pursued what was really important to me.  I didn't want to be a waitress, but knowing it was temporary made it bearable, and when (frequently), customers spoke to me condescendingly, I would narrow my eyes, inhale and think:
Fuck you and your Chicken Tenders, you moronic Cow-town Jackhole; I've read Hamlet ... which somehow salvaged for myself enough nobility to accept his crappy 10% tip and carry on.
One of the smartest and most lucrative job choices I made to support my acting pursuits was entering the fitness industry.  When I moved to NY, I was interested in teaching group classes, as I had done for years, as opposed to one-on-one fitness training (mostly because I didn't want to cough up the money for the expensive certification), but after weeks of dropping resumes off to the various gyms of NYC, I stumbled into the Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe, and one-on-one personal training was the job I got.  They overlooked my lack of certification for the time being.  I think they were charmed by my tidy Midwestern "wholesome" appearance and that my background included years of ballet class and college courses... as opposed to brief stints in prison and/or soft porn (credits which indeed applied to a few of my soon-to-be coworkers.)
I had some wonderful clients at the Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe, individuals who will live fondly in my heart forever.  But I also had some assholes.  I will never forget when I was forced into a session with a very difficult and very wealthy woman named Angioletta.  That bitch went through three trainers before she got matched with me and I had NO desire to spend even five minutes with her, let alone 60.  Lesson learned:
You can have all the money in the world and still be a twat.
This woman came to the gym -- I am not making this up-- in a fox fur stole.  Around her neck was fox fur and, yes, a fox face.  Her ears and hands flashed with diamonds and her make-up was... deliberate.  She was interested only in "Floor Work."
So.
The Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe insisted that I take on this client and she insisted on keeping on her stole.  Naturally, I insisted we do push ups.  Lots and lots of push-ups.  And every other sweat-inducing floor exercise I could think of (the kind that look really easy but make you want to throw-up after three reps.)
"Do ten."
She was too proud to say no, and I watched without hiding my smile as beads of perspiration formed on her brow and upper lip.  About eleven minutes into her session she proclaimed, "I am going to take this off" as she removed her animal from her neck and placed in gingerly on the gym floor beside us.
Yeah, you are.
Well.  She liked me.  This was not good news.  I didn't need another client and I wasn't there to get rich ("What, you don't like money?")  No, I was there to work as little as possible yet still pay my rent.  Sadly, Twat-Head-Fox-Neck signed up with me for Mondays and Wednesdays at noon, lengthening my workday beyond my wishes and ruining my life.
I was pissed.
Management was thrilled.
Angioletta?  To my knowledge, never returned to The Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe.
I never had to train her again.
Now, I actually liked training and some of it was very rewarding, but I wasn't going to make a career out of it, so there was only so much shit I would take.  Luckily, I just wasn't driven by money which helped keep my priorities straight.  The barbell that broke this camel's back was a guy named Stew.  This guy was rich beyond my comprehension.  He was an attorney, and apparently very successful.  He was also rumored to have a beautiful woman on his arm regularly despite his dumpy appearance.  He was, as I can attest, completely lacking in social grace.
Lesson learned:

Money can sway.  Money buys.  Money probably got Stew pretty dates.

You can have all the money in the world and still be a twat.

Let me be clear:  I hated training Stew.

You cannot imagine the sort of self-talk I had to do on a tri-weekly basis to prepare for our 7 A.M. sessions.  The smile I wore when I greeted him was truly some of my finest acting work ever.  Stew, like Angioletta, had plowed through several trainers before me at The Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe.  In his case, he dumped them all because after all the time and money he spent on them, he was still a Fat Fuck.  

• The fact the he was fat,  despite that he was getting great work-outs from every trainer he met, was most likely due to a poor diet and I feel bad that I couldn't help him with that.  
• The fact that he was a  Fuck  is his own fucking fault and I don't feel even a little bad for saying so.

He was a shitty client for many reasons.  But what always astounded me was how someone so horrible at social interaction could find financial success anywhere.  (The two are not related, much to my woe.)  While I'd like to claim that Stewy rarely -if ever- talked, I suppose the truthful claim is that he rarely, if ever, spoke to me.  You might think his silence was preferable, but trust me, it was really, really horrible.  He could make 60 minutes feel like a 3 month-span.  All Februarys.  All Sunless.  And no Snow Days.

But the worst part of training Stewy was his balls.

I do not write metaphorically.  

I mean what I say when I say "balls."

You know what I mean too, so don't expect expansion on the topic.

Stew had a tendency to let his balls hang out of his shorts.  Gross, right?

Gross.  Put your balls away.  You are an adult.  Get some good boxer briefs and wear them when you are in public.  

And then the question becomes:  "is it on purpose?"

Well, I have no way of knowing and I never asked him, (I didn't have the, ahem, you know to bring it up) but I did pose the question to the male trainers at The Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe.

Guys.  Wouldn't you feel AIR?  Don't you think that the mere sensation of AIR on your balls would alert you that they might be visible???

I got varied responses.  But, whether or not bare-balls are obvious to the beholder, the men that I worked with all agreed that I should just tell him:  "Dude, you have to cover your balls."  It was not a command I could ever comfortably put into words.  I asked the management of The Prestigious Upscale Upper-east side Fitness Establishment I Came to Loathe to switch him to another trainer.  They refused.  And so... I quit.

"What, you don't like money?"

I have done a lot of work for very little pay.

I once accepted a pot-brownie as a tip.

Onstage, I am a self-proclaimed "whore for a laugh."

And, yes, I like money... but all the money in the world can't make me endure the bare balls of a boring boar.

Luck Bros' is in Grandview and is a killer spot to hang out and drink coffee.  These guys know their beans and you can't ask for a better environment.  1101West 1st Ave. Grandview Heights, OH 43212.  www.luckbroscoffeehouse.com/