Last weekend in July, and we had a September weekend — weirdly chilly and windy, with the sort of rain you get when autumn’s on its way. (I suppose autumn is always on its way on the great wheel, but you know what I mean.) Bottom line: I’m sitting in front of my open window in a sleeveless T-shirt, longing for a hoodie.
Not that I am complaining. I did plenty of sweating in the gym today.
I haven’t mentioned this yet, because BORING, but I started working with a trainer not long after my eye surgery, and today, almost three months later, I’m starting to feel the results. It used to take three weeks in the weight room to see musculature asserting itself again; now it’s three months. The faster time goes, the longer it takes, evidently. I say “feel” over “see,” because at this point that’s all I’m really interested in. I want to stop feeling like a blob, I want to bend over and straighten up and be aware that the armature handling this task is up to the job. I chose to work with a trainer instead of doing it on my own because the whip on my back is part of the process, and Stephanie the Sadist mixes things up enough that I don’t get bored. I will keep a gym date with a relative stranger, but not a date with myself. Perversely, spending more money at the gym is making me value visits there more highly. Surely there’s an economics principle at work here.
So I read Frank Bruni’s column today on the very same subject, and after my customary first reaction (how did this guy get a column in the New York fucking Times?), I had my second one (there’s five minutes of my life I won’t get back), and then fixated on this passage:
There’s a trainer at my gym who routinely gives clients graphic details of his libidinous escapades. There’s a trainer who travels with and to certain clients, who can’t be without him. There’s a trainee who exercises, if you can call it that, in a full coat of makeup, never smudged by sweat. There are teenagers dropped off by their parents, who apparently believe they owe their children not just good educations but six-pack abs.
How did this happen? And when? Fifteen years ago I didn’t know a single person who had a personal trainer; then, suddenly, every third friend had one. Personal trainers are like automatic tellers: one minute they didn’t exist, the next they were everywhere, and considered indispensable.
Pure Andy Rooney, that. On the other hand, what did I say a few paragraphs back? BORING.
What else happened this weekend? The sweet corn is now at the market. So we can all enjoy that.
I used to think of Caroline Kennedy as my doppelganger, born a mere two days apart as we were. Now I find her insufferable. Or maybe it’s just this stupid fawning profile of her, again in the NYT. The byline is Jacob Bernstein, son of Carl and Nora; presumably he was raised amongst his parents’ famous friends, so how can he write a passage like this without barfing all over his own keyboard?
A few years ago, Mr. Hughes made an offhand comment that he and his partner, Dr. Richard Friedman, a psychiatrist who directs the psychopharmacology clinic at NewYork-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell hospital, made a ritual of competing in Swim for Life, a 1.25-mile event in Provincetown, Mass, that raises money for AIDS and women’s health charities. “She said, ‘Oh, I’d really like to do that,’ ” Mr. Hughes said.
And so, Ms. Kennedy did. “She just showed up and changed in a gas station and came out and did the race,” Mr. Hughes said. “It was pretty choppy, and she did a terrific job. I’m happy to say I beat her. But just barely.”
Although this correction is a hoot:
An earlier version of this article misstated Edwin Schlossberg’s profession. He is an interactive designer and artist, not an architect.
Good to know.
One thing I’ve noticed, since the Detroit bankruptcy thrust our little town into the national spotlight, is how utterly wrong so many people are about so much, how even fairly straightforward facts elude many writers. WDET’s blog addresses just one of these. You can quibble the way a couple of the commenters did, but the main point stands.
It’s time to let the Tiger Stadium site go, says on Freep writer. I have to say, I agree.
With that, I’m going to get a jump on what’s shaping up to be a pretty busy week. Take care, all. It feels like a dangerous world these days, but maybe it’s just the chill.