I’ve recently started a second job, which in case you were wondering is because my writing and acting ventures have yet to be profitable enough for me to drop the mic and flee forever the constraints of hourly employment. One day, one day…
So partly because I’m obsessed with fitness but mostly because they called me before anyone else, and because being an assistant just wouldn’t allow me the flexibility to audition- I now work at a gym in Weho, frequented by actors and directors and actual body builders. Also there are some really hot personal trainers.
But about these trainers… so everyone knows that the men of LA are an entirely different breed than those found in other parts of the world, or even outside of the Thirty Mile Zone. There is the perpetual man-boy/schlubby aspiring standup comedian; there is the actor with way, waayyyyy more feelings than I have time to deal with; there is the douchebag promoter who thinks I will sleep with him because he can get me into an SBE property- everybody works for SBE, calm the eff down sir; the Eastside vegan who insists on using soap that he made himself; the agency guys with skinny jeans and Prada shoes who are mistaken if they think I’m going to drive to Century City all willy nilly for drinks, and a plethora of others that can be found in endless variations and permutations. But these mothereffing trainers at my job…
I was under the impression that when you start working at a new place, you should introduce yourself to your coworkers because I don’t know, it’s polite! And because I really prefer to avoid asking someone what their name is after I’ve seen them every day for a month. Awkward! Unfortunately, my adherence to basic social constructs was taken as forwardness, which in 2013 translates to thirstiness. Nope! Sir, seriously, I don’t want you. Like, I really, really don’t. And furthermore, I realize that you are a personal trainer, but in general, every woman you meet does not want you!
Unfortunately, most of my introductions were met with some mumbled version of “Oh, hey. You’re the new girl huh,” and sometimes followed by a smarmy wink (who winks?!) or an invitation to “workout sometime,” really?! And on a few occasions, there was licking of lips and the rubbing together of hands. I’m sorry, is this a Jagged Edge video from 1999? No? Then get your life together! Of course after these sad displays of misguided modern machismo, there have been no words and no eye contact. Because now they’re playing hard to get. Kill yourself! Because that would only work if I thought of you as anything more than sweaty eye candy. Sigh.
The culprit here as usual, is my youthful visage. A few of my coworkers confirmed that they assumed I’m a teenager, so I get it now. I look like I’m not old enough to know better, or to be immune to Hollywood douchebaggery, but I am, so the fact that my efforts to behave like a normal human being worked against me is extremely annoying to say the least.
Despite the fact that I work with cads (yep, I’m bring that word back), and driving from Burbank to Weho every day makes me wish for a future involving teleportation, and that some people throw THE MOST outlandish of tantrums when there are no towels after spin class, I like my new job. Also it’s directly above a Trader Joe’s and a Starbucks so I may never leave.