Monday, September 30, 2013

not that fbi
If you look up FBI Italia on google you get everything from a romance novel cover to a stack of pancakes, from a police headquarters to shirtless FBI agent's photo from an email that was featured on the huffington news. In fact, I was looking for a gym related item such as this one :

What FBI means to me is that on Sunday the fancy gym was invaded by about 80 very fit instructors wearing tight black tee shirts who came to steal my usual classroom. To be fair there was a note in the weekly gym newsletter, but when I asked my colleagues about it they were suspisciously vague.
Ever so chipper and helpful, Alessandra told me to look it up on the internet. So I did.  I found only this facebook page:
And it scared me.
Then my dear, sweet (cough cough) co-worker Lisa told me she would find out and let me know because it would involve free training classes that might interest her. She never did let me know. She suited up with the rest of them and her boyfriend Ricky who wore a white transparent unitard. It's his favorite. Neither of them seemed to give a rat's ass that I was gong to be teaching in the other room. Neither did anyone official, as they were mostly home in bed on Sunday morning, I imagine. 
I managed to squeeze into the large classroom just in time to drag the giant garbage bag of balls out from under the stage, and I checked that I had enough weights in the smaller classroom. It never occurred to me that the buggers would have stolen all of the gym mats as well. It was bad enough that I hadn't loaded my ipod properly and I had to ask F to bring me the computer in the pouring rain to reload the music at the last minute. i know, I know, he is a saint. 

F saving my butt.

My makeshift, uneven little stage.

I opened the door to the big classroom after class was already in progress and tried to run around the periphery to get to the pile of mats at the front. Unfortunately, the black suited robot teachers were doing this very aggressive style of step choreography. Although, I got up to the front unscathed, it occurred to me that I had just been lucky.  The choreography had been leaning away from the right end of the bench, but if they should start dancing on the right side I would have to choose to go down the pentultimate aisle of the room and hope for the best. I chose poorly.  Several robots collided into me. I was half blinded by the mats which were sticking up in my field of vision. It was only when I barely made it out of the room that I noticed that I hadn't grabbed enough because in their folded up form there appeared to be more than there actually were. Luckily some of my brave and outraged students got mats for themselves.
I had to ask Alessandra to move the little stage for me. It is not terribly heavy, but I couldn't risk my already jeopardized back. She is shorter than I, but she doesn't do my method and so she is absolutely bulked out with muscle. "Strong like bull," as the Russians say in every badly dubbed, badly written American crime movie. She complained that my request would pull her out of the crowded main room, where the action was. Alessandra likes to be in the middle of the action, you see. But seeing as she was the only official colleague I had in the whole gym apart from Sylvia who works in the office, I had to ask her for this huge favor which took exactly 40 seconds of her time in total. Sylvia let me vent to her for a minute and was perplexed when I threw my arms around her in gratitude, but little does she know what I have to go through just to teach exercise for 50 minutes.

The class went well and I had about 20 people on a rainy Sunday morning. When I went into the clients' changing room to say goodbye to some of my friends afterwards, the head black tee shirted FBI lady gave me a chilling and hostile glare from under her flaming red bangs, but she is the least of my problems. Angelina Jolie, eat your heart out.
I can't be liked by everyone; it's hardly the case that everyone has good taste!

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