Inertia

Our monthly trainer meetings are held in the group fitness studio.

There are no chairs. We sit on the floor or create a stack of step aerobics risers to sit on.

The meetings are mandatory.

Eighteen years ago, the floor wasn’t a problem. Now, if I sat on the floor for an hour, they’d have to carry me out on a stretcher.

When I was hired—did I mention it was eighteen years ago—these meetings seemed like a great idea: an opportunity to come together, review last month’s team performance, and discuss goals for the current month.

The top trainers were recognized and sometimes given a small reward. I was often acknowledged. Sometimes for my performance (how many client sessions I performed during the month, client retention, new sales, etc.), sometimes for my leadership and/or role as a mentor and educator.

Those moments made me feel valued. I already loved the work I was doing—both with clients and with the training staff. But it was also nice to be recognized.

Eighteen years ago—heck, ten years ago, even five—I wouldn’t have missed them for the world.

Lately I’ve been inventing excuses not to go. Client reschedule, doctor’s appointment, migraine...coma.

I can only get away with it for so long. This month, reluctantly, I attended.

First, they make us do a team-building exercise. Usually something physical—a relay race, tug-of-war…a push-up contest.

I want to hide in the cubby area with the 2-pound dumbbells the old ladies use in group class. See how long I can hold my breath.

Why is that never a team-building contest? Better yet, what if we each hung a noose from the ceiling fan to see who could last the longest?

Where’s the creativity?

They make us do this before we can eat the food they’ve catered.

An entire spread of catered food, sitting there—getting cold and filling my nostrils—while I carry some 20-year-old’s legs, wheelbarrowing him up and down the studio.

I don’t care if we win; I just want it to be over so I can eat. It’s the only reason I showed up, after all.

I picture myself doing these races with a chicken drumstick between my teeth.

Mercifully, we’re allowed to stand in a long line of—I don’t know—two thousand trainers, paper plates in hand, waiting for those in front of us to pick through the best of what’s on display.

The winners go first.

We didn’t win.

Finally, seated on my makeshift throne, I’m allowed to gorge on whatever scraps are left by the time my team reaches the front of the line.

The meeting begins with management introducing the new hires. Three newbies are made to stand in front of the room and asked about their certification, what their favorite cereal is, and—get this—to sing us their favorite song lyric or show us their favorite dance move.

And they wonder about the turnover.

Notably, they never mention the trainers who disappeared since last month.

Next up: metrics. Team closing percentage. Total sessions performed. Sales statistics. Blah blah blah.

Not one person in the room cares about these numbers. Well, okay, the manager does. Her bonus depends on them.

We each run our own businesses, monitor our own numbers. Speaking of which—

The top trainer—only here a couple of months—attractive, muscular, steroid-enhanced, tan, always looking the part—completed over 200 training sessions last month. TWO HUNDRED.

I can’t even comprehend how large his paychecks must be. Everybody’s clapping, but I’m doing math and trying to be subtle as I pull a bit of chicken gristle out of my mouth and onto my plate.

A few other trainers hovered around 90—the critical threshold for bonuses. Most trainers—including me—are somewhere between 40 and 60.

Which means no bonus. Cat food for dinner.

I used to be the favorite.

Fifteen years ago.

The top trainer comes from a marketing and sales background. No education. No fitness experience.

He looks the part.

But I’d bet a hundred bucks if you played checkers with him, he’d try to eat the pieces.

As the meeting rounds the bases toward home, a cost-cutting measure slips in—breezed over like a comment about the weather. Our in-house education curriculum is transitioning from in-person classes to online videos.

My heart drops. Class facilitation is a sizable chunk of my income—one I depend on, given how unstable training clients can be.

That curriculum is one of the main reasons I believed so strongly in this brand in the first place.

Now what am I going to do?

I arrived home to find a Notice of Rental Increase on my door. A 9.9% increase—just under the 10% maximum allowed by law.

Every. Fucking. Year.

I’m gonna have to sell my car. Or something.

I got no relief as I complained on the phone to a close, long-time friend.

“To be blunt, you’re sounding like a victim.”

She wasn’t wrong. I heard it in my voice before we hung up the phone.

What is going on? I’m not someone without distinctions. I know the difference between taking responsibility and being a victim.

Conceptually, I understand that when it feels like the world is conspiring against me, there’s usually something underneath it all that I’m refusing to own.

But I don’t want to take responsibility. I want to be pissed off at—

At an evil, greedy landlord taking advantage at every turn.

At an employer to whom I’ve been loyal for most of my adult life, but who doesn’t extend the same.

At a revolving door of management who doesn’t recognize my value.

At clients who cancel, flake. Ghost.

I lay on the floor, staring up as the ceiling fan spun slowly around and around.

At myself.

For staying long after this job stopped being useful, thinking things would get better.

For letting myself go—physically—slowly, gradually, over the years. Now looking more like a client than a trainer.

For holding tightly to dreams of someday, relegating plans to the future while never taking decisive action toward the next thing.

It feels better to lash out at the world.

The thought that I’m in this situation because of my own actions—inactions. Complacency. Inertia.

That feels so much worse.