The New Me Part I

I have never been described as "buff." But having been given a free membership at New York Sports Club(NYSC,) I decided to forego by life of indolence and sloth and pump iron. I scanned the schedule and decided to to ease into my new exercise regimen with a "silversneakers" total body conditioning class. "Silversneakers" is the euphemistically named exercise program for those on medicare. It's not for the fleet of foot. Rather, it's for the infirm and not firm. Perfect. I looked around the room and determined that I was the youngest by a a decade and a half. Despite it being my first exercise class since basketball gym in college, I was clearly the star. I excelled at the side to side stepping for 2 minutes to a rousing, "Those Were The Days, My Friend," but where I really shone was in wiggling my fingers, which the teacher explained was "good for arthritis." As I don't have arthritis, I was the best wiggler and very proud of myself. I found myself comparing this class to my prior gym class experiences. This class was eerily reminiscent of my college class called "recreational games." Three semesters of gym were required at my school. The first semester I took tennis. I couldn't serve and rarely returned the ball, but I was never absent and received a gentlewoman's "C." The second semester I signed up for basketball. This was not voluntary. My name began with "A," and the "A's" were last to register. Basketball was the most unpopular gym for any Jewish girl in Brooklyn, because the tallest among us was 5'3". I needed gym, and basketball gym was the only open class. Less than 5', I was an unlikely guard, and having poor eye hand coordination, I couldn't dribble at all. I was apparently better than the some of the other girls, because I eked out a "B." It was a "B" similar to the one I received in calculus. In calculus, I understood zilch, thought I was in the wrong room when I looked at the final exam, but was apparently somewhat less dense than some of my classmates. "Recreational Games," my third semester of gym was the one with any potential utility. Even at age 17, I intuited that it wasn't useful then, but it could come in handy later. We played, "sit volleyball," a unique game in which the teams sat on opposite sides of the net and were not permitted to stand up to hit the ball. This rule made for not much action, since unless the ball came directly to you, you couldn't hit it. At the time, we were all able bodied, more or less, but even then, I understood, that 60 years hence we might be confined to wheelchairs and this might be a delightful game in the nursing home. We also indulged in shuffleboard, which I knew could come in handy on my future cruises on the the QEII. Teaching us horseshoes was also prescient because at least some of us were sure to end up on a cattleranch. Although I enjoyed being the nymphette of the silversneakers class, I moved up and on to "Shred." I should have known from the name and my classmates that this would not be an class for a wuss. My classmates had bare midriffs and flat stomachs. I'm sure they also had great quads, biceps, triceps and lats, except I have no idea what those are, although I'm sure I don't have them. Suffice it to say, I had a vigorous workout during which I spent almost every moment praying there was a CPR machine on the premises and the remaining moments fervently vowing that in the unlikely event I survived, I would give thanks by adopting a village in Nigeria. Tomorrow, after the Yoruba chieftain concludes my crash course in Igbo, I intend to return to NYSC to challenge myself with "ufx burn." I have no idea what it entails, but I know it can't be worse than Vinyasa yoga. I left that class after 5 minutes of excruciating pain, wanting to deport the downward dog to a "kill" shelter.

Precious Moment IV

On the ranking of thankless jobs, religious proselytizer on the New York City subway has to be in the top 3. Has anyone ever been converted from an atheist to a believer between 14th Street and 59th Street? From a Buddhist to a Jehovah's Witness between Bloomingdales and 86th Street? Given what must be their demoralizing failure rate, I would like to be the saint,who, imprisoned underground with no means of escape, could listen to their unrelenting, stentorian rants with a beatific smile, understanding that in their deluded brains they think they are helping us sinners. Instead, rage rises in me and only the fear of being stabbed by one of these loons, keeps my from shouting out, " SHUT THE FUCK UP ." I'm afraid that the harangues of holy rollers on the 8th Avenue line, have the unintended consequence of bringing out my worse nature. Startled out of my New Yorker by a blaring voice with a Nigerian accent, my first thought is not "He's doing God's work." Rather, it's, "Go back to Nigeria, " which I'm so mortified to even think, that I immediately change it to "Go sell knock-off Fendi's in Times Square and leave me the fuck alone." Given my distaste for the obnoxious, intrusive converter I'm used to, I was delighted to observe one who employed a altogether different and more congenial tack. This D train missionary was a white male ,jean clad, clean shaven, with long hair, armed with a bible and a cross, cut out of newsprint. He sat down next to a Chassidic man in a long black coat and black hat who was engrossed in reading the Talmud. He quietly said to the Chassid, " I see you're a religious man and you must know that all men are sinners. I'm sure you're a good man, but you're a sinner too and if you accept Jesus Christ in your heart, he will save you." The Chassid did not look up, keeping his head in Rashi. The missionary took out his newsprint cross to show to the Chassid, who still did not shift his gaze from his tome. The missionary surrendered,saying, " It was nice to talk to you. It was nice meeting you." The Chassid finally looked up, acknowledged the proselytizer and said "It was nice to meet you too." Agreed that the D train missionary is not the most astute at selecting targets for conversion. But unlike the other wackos who try to foist their beliefs on others, he made me smile and although I didn't see the smile beneath the beard, I think the Chassid was also smiling.