On Personal Trainers and 3rd Grade Diplomas

Ok, I used to be a personal trainer, in fact that was my profession for over 25 years. I’m not sure why I’m so reluctant to tell you guy’s that, in fact it’s a little embarrassing to admit. I suppose my reluctance comes from the fear that you might lump me in with all the other stereotypical trainers out there. Now I’m not going to waste your time by trying to set myself apart from the other meatheads in my industry cause I’m just as dumb as the next trainer. The stupidity began when I actually obtained a BS in Exercise Physiology. Four years of knowledge and money flushed down the drain to begin a career which really only requires a 3rd grade education. I use the word “requires” loosely because a 3rd grade education is not actually “required”. However getting that 3rd grade sheepskin not only adds to a trainer’s credibility but also adds the ability to read and write to the whole skill set. To those aspiring PT’s out there who do not possess this skill, DO NOT GIVE UP HOPE! Simply practice writing the words; set, reps and protein and you will just about have all the necessary writing skills necessary. (Sorry to throw protein in there because I know the whole i before e except after c will throw you completely off, but then again I don’t think that rule is learned until 4th grade). The reading and writing is not the important stuff anyway. The REAL challenge is knowing when and how to say the two most important words in the Personal Training language………..”Two More”. “Two More” is what a trainer says when he has no idea how many reps a client has done because you are thinking about 10 other things other than personal training. (I would have said 20 other things but with only a 3rd grade education that would be an incredible stretch). You can tell who the really good trainers are because they can effortlessly say “Three More”. When you can start throwing around the “three mores” then you know as a trainer that you have reached a level that few have obtained.
Why is “Two More” so important? Because “two more” covers the trainers butt and conveys to the client that the trainer is paying attention to every little detail of the workout. This of course is not actually true. In fact, “Two More” was invented because of a phenomenon that inflicts trainers called “trainer stare”. “Trainer Stare” is a catatonic look that washes over a trainer during a training session and can occur for several different reasons. It might come on after the trainer has seen his 10th client of the day and it’s only 7:00am and there’s 25 more clients to go. It can manifest after hearing the same client tell him week after week that she is following her diet perfectly and is still not losing weight. (Note to reader, any weight gain is always explained away as “muscle weight gain”). During “Trainer Stare” the trainer could not tell you what month it was, much less the rep number the client is on. Usually ST is the effect of a burned out, over weight trainer (again, muscle weight) who is kicking himself for not pushing the envelope and getting that 4th grade diploma.
I shouldn’t be embarrassed of a career that enabled me to touch so many lives (and bodies) and that enabled my life to be touched as well. The problem with professions is the other people in your profession. Hey, it’s not like it’s a party hangin’ with a bunch of writers either. However, there is a correlation between writers and trainers…………most of the great writers never made it past the 3rd grade either.

On Al

“Nice snag catch”. Three words put together in a seemingly meaningless and jumbled phrase. Three words that have been gently imprinted into my memory for the last 43 years. At 6 years old I was playing catcher on the tiny baseball diamond on the south east corner of Marshall Elementary School. But for the small square backstop which stood just beyond a stretch of tall trees lining Peoria, the grass covered field would be unrecognizable as a baseball field. Dressed in our standard team uniform of jeans and a t-shirt which read “Marshall Bobcats”, catching was not my usual position at that time but then again at 6 years old you might be playing any one of 9 positions at anytime…actually, make that 6 positions because as everyone knew the 3 outfield positions were reserved for those players that were still “developing” into the game. This day would be my first to ever catch, a chubby kid with a left handed fielders mitt (left handed catchers mitts were unheard of by the glove manufacturers). It’s funny, I played baseball throughout my childhood and teenage years yet I have very few memories of any of it. If not for a fleeting few seconds this particular day would have traveled where all the other memories go when you can’t remember them anymore. This day was different. A pitch was thrown wide to my right in the dirt and I dove for it and caught it. That’s when I heard those 3 words, “nice snag catch”. Those words came from the opposing coach standing just a few feet to my right. Those were the first words that Al Padek ever spoke to me. 43 years later I sit here wondering why my young heart dove and snagged those words and held them tight for so long. I’ve often pulled those words out to look at them. It’s not like I had never been complimented before. What made these words so special? I think it is a testament to the fact that Al’s words were just different, more special than others and his words made you feel special. Al was like comfort food, you hear his name and you are instantly “back home”, a place where life was simple and baseball was simply life. Maybe that’s why I smile every time I think of him. Since hearing those first 3 words I had the fortune of listening to Al for many more years to come. There are very few people in my lifetime that I have respected more than that man. I’m not alone. There are countless others who Al left his mark on in his own special unassuming way. Al is a constant reminder that each one of us, in our own special way, can make a difference in someone’s life. I’m sure Al never realized the impact that he had on so many lives. Don’t forget how special you can be to some chubby kid out there. If I could see Al just one more time I’d tell him, “nice snag Al”, he’d know just what I meant……

On Yoga

What sick twisted Indian invented yoga and how the hell does the word serenity come remotely close to describing the feeling you get while doing it? Ok, admittedly I’m a little inflexible, maybe a lot inflexible. What I do know is that I’m moaning every time I sit down, or tie my shoes…….or look at my shoes. I’ve been trying to follow a yoga routine on TV every morning and it is just seriously not working out. The foul sights and sounds of me attempting these moves resemble something you’d see on the documentary of the 800lb man. Are these moves for real? I mean seriously am I being punked here? Which gives me an idea… I’m thinking of contacting the TLC network and pitching them on the idea of filming me doing yoga every morning. I think a lot of guys out there could relate to me straining to downward facing dog…but then again they might get less squeamish watching the 800lb guy. Namaste this.

On Highways and Poetry

I was watching tv the other day and happened to see one of those “Vacation In Our State” ads. It was a nice piece put out by the State Tourism Department. I was really impressed by the beautiful waterfalls, mountains and forests. What puzzled me is that I’ve lived in this state for over 40 years and have never seen anything that came close to what I saw in that commercial. I’m thinking maybe our guy’s may have snapped a few of those shots just across the border. I decided that I was going to get in my car and find out for myself just what this state looks like. I regret to report that I found no waterfalls, mountains or forests. What I did see were a number of impressive motels that actually had ( now brace yourselves) FREE HBO AND……….COLD AIR!. That’s right, I said COLD AIR. The hopelessly uninformed would not realize that cold air happens to be a very hot commodity in the motel business these days. I also had never noticed what an Old World feel my state had. This was obvious by the number of businesses that ended with the word “Shoppe.” There was the “Pizza Shoppe,” the “Nut Shoppe”, the “Gas Shoppe”, and the “Junk Shoppe”. I always feel like instant “classe” is achieved when “shoppe” is used. Of course the spelling could have been my imagination as my vision was blurred from the vibration caused by my car hitting the award winning potholes that dot our beautiful state highways. Although all these sightings were memorable none were more moving than the impressive signs put out by the State Highway Dept. You see them about every 3 miles. First there was the one promoting seat belt safety, it read “Click it, or Ticket”. Another encouraged general driving safety, “Drive to Arrive Alive. My question is who is the gifted State Highway Poet coming up with this stuff? I mean, when you can bring words to life like that it can almost give you chills. In addition to the amazing creativity that went into this roadway literature, it probably only cost the state a few hundred thousand dollars to create such art. Well worth it of course. I mean, these poets work hard for their money. You can just picture a staff meeting now. “Ok people, we’ve got a tough one today, we have got to come up with a phrase that rhymes with ticket.” Although “Wicket”, “Stick it”, and “Lick it” came very close, when “Click It” rolled off the tongue of the Master Highway Poet the tears flowed freely that day. Drive to Arrive Alive was of course a stroke of genius, obviously because of the the three word rhyme or the “hat trick” as it’s called in the highway biz. By far my favorite highway poetry was the one dealing with the sick crime of child abuse. I feel the highway poets gave child abuse a black eye when they came up with, “NO EXCUSE, CHILD ABUSE”. Whoa. Just sit back, close your eyes and just feel the impact of that statement. There’s no telling how many child abusers out there drive by those signs and instantly change their mind about beating Johnny. Now, I’m not that good with rhymes and I’m definitely not worthy of highway poet status, but I’m thinking that a sign dealing with child abuse should rhyme something like this, “CHILD ABUSE, DO IT AND WE WILL PERSONALLY BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.” Okay, like I said, not great with the rhyme thing, but I think it’s one of those catchy phrases that could just run through your head all day long. So Highway Poets I salute you. Keep putting your art out there. My fear is that with state cutbacks your work could be in danger. I implore the state, leave the potholes and keep the signs! And readers, remember this, “READ NICK DANGER, YOUR DANGEROUS WORLD RANGER.” Still working on ye old rhyme. Enjoy the cold air.

On Black Choirs and the Plight of the White

As a white kid attending a Baptist church I was held hostage and forced to listen to what was known as the “worship service”. As memory serves, the choir was made up of older men and women who looked just as reluctant to be there as I was. Add to this an older woman playing the organ and a man of equal age leading this “worship service”. If you were to close your eyes, you would not be able to distinguish this “worship service” from a funeral service except that funerals were a little more lively. I’m sure God appreciated the effort and God being God can sit through just about anything. I don’t recall the exact circumstances but for some reason I found myself sitting in a black Baptist church service with my family one Sunday. It was there that I was introduced to the “black choir”, and it was then that I realized that this was the channel that God was watching. (Note to reader: I rarely if ever pay any attention to political correctness. I use the word black because it’s shorter, flows better and because of the fact that I’ve never had an African American friend refer to himself or any other African American as an African American.) People in this choir seemed to actually like being there and at the risk of sounding sacrilegious appeared to be having fun! It was a great experience that I would never forget and it would be difficult to forget because for the last 10 years the music industry has taken advantage of the spiritual inspiration of these choirs and continually trots them out anytime an act needs a big finish. I mean it was definitely cool the first time I saw U2 use a black choir but my god it’s gotten a little stale. Even The Boss, Bruce Springsteen played the black choir card at the Super Bowl halftime performance. (Note to reader: I use the phrase “black choir” when in reality the choir usually has a token white guy. Probably some politically correct statement. This dude is trying really hard but it’s just not working.) (Additional note to reader: I use the term white instead of Caucasian. I do this because I’ve never referred to another white guy as a Caucasian and I have trouble spelling it.) No other point to this other than it’s been done, go on to something else. Get creative, like maybe three quarters of the way through a Beyonce performance, haul out my old white Baptist choir (with of course the token black guy), If nothing else it will bring to light one of the many plights of growing up white.

On Bitches and Breeders

So you want to buy a dog. Sounds so simple. It can be, until you make the decision to buy a pure bred dog of some kind. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that and you’ll probably enjoy your pet for years to come, IF AND ONLY IF you are worthy of that particular breed. Yes, I said worthy and that will only be determined by the inquiring and all knowing mind of…….(que scary organ music)……THE BREEDER. Before you decide to continue this quest could I recommend some other adventure, say, smuggling cigars from Cuba or wearing a heavy underwire bra through airport security. Getting caught can be painful and humiliating (not that I have tried smuggling cigars), but not quite as humbling as the interrogation you will experience when trying to obtain a dog from (organ music) THE BREEDER. See, just the mere fact that I used the term “dog” would probably ruin my chances of obtaining one from (organ……and this will be the last time I do this) THE BREEDER. You see, when inquiring about a certain breed you are to reference the dog by the breed. For instance, if you want a Golden Retriever you should ask the breeder that you are looking in to the Goldens that are availabe. If you merely state that you want to know about that breeders “dogs” this is somehow condescending and your chances of any luck with this breeder are slim. It’s also a good idea to reference the dog’s sex as either a male or a bitch. While this does not work well at a bar it seems to be the preference of breeders. Breeders seem to relish bragging on their animals with phrases like, “Oh, she’s a wonderful bitch” or “this bitch has a wonderful temperment”, again not so much at a bar. Once you get the terminology down be prepared with such information as your age, marital status, ages of your children, yard size, blood type and astrological sign. Most breeders would never sell their bitch to a Taurus. I once had a friend that lied in a breeders application just to get a dog. He stated that he was married with 3 children and had a large yard, all of which were untrue. The breeder bought the lies but turned my friend down when the puppies were born because my friend had not called to “check in” during the bitch’s pregnancy. The fatal mistake came when my friend said “What’s the big deal, it’s just a dog!” As you can guess my friend remained dogless. The only thing left after the inquery is actually paying for the animal. The price varies between breeds but always goes up when there are dog show awards in the dogs lineage. Mind you, the dogs do not arrive trained. You pay hundreds if not thousands of dollars for a puppy that acts like your kid on sugar. Apparently the well bred dogs have the “potential” for greatness, that is of course only after years of training. So you finally have the dog. Don’t think you have escaped the watchful eye of the breeder just yet. Expect phone calls ever so often and maybe even a surprise visit! It is so worth it though. Who cares that your neigbors $8 pound puppy is incredible. You have a $1500 puppy eating the legs off your coffee table but your bitch is pure quality. Cuba is nice this time of year…….and go braless.

On Child Molesters and Babysitting

Do you know who lives next door to you? Well, our judicial system is doing a wonderful job of providing 2nd , 3rd, and 4th chances to some interesting characters who just may be living next door to you. To tell you the truth, I could care less…….as long, of course, as it doesn’t affect me or my family. Let’s take your run of the mill tax evader. I don’t mind this guy getting another chance at perfecting his tax evasion skills. I’m not going to lose any sleep with this guy moving next door to me. If anything I could use a few tax tips. What I do have a small problem with is when I go online and find that there are a dozen sex offenders and child molesters living within a 2 square mile of me. I know, I know, it’s wrong of me to discriminate against a criminal who has gone through our great judicial system and is now getting on with his life regardless of the hideousness of his crime. I’m sure our system makes certain that this individual is totally rehabilitated before releasing him back into the wild again. Rehabbing a sex offender doesn’t quite ring right with me. How does one go about rehabbing a convicted child molester( who may be living next door to me)? Should a person really have to go through rehab to get him to quit sexually abusing a child? I know, I know, there I go again. Me and my stupid politically incorrect thinking. Sure these guy’s should have a chance at rehab and sure they should have the right to move next door to me……..but before they do let me suggest one final stage of rehab for these convicted child molesters (who may be living next door to me). This is my plan. Before the convicted child molester(who may be living next door to me) is totally set free, he must complete one more assignment. He must baby sit for the attorney who just defended him. A simple assignment for a rehabilitated child molester ( who may live next door to me), and a great show of faith for the attorney who stood behind his client and believed in him when the chips were down. So, Mr. Defense attorney you and your honey take a well deserved trip out of town for the weekend and leave your children in the safe and rehabilitated hands of the convicted child molester that you just saved from doing hard time. I hope he does a good job for you because next week he’s sitting for the judge that ruled in the case. Wow, babysitting a judges grandkids! Won’t that look good on your resume! Well, those are my suggestions but what do I know. I’m just a regular guy with kids who probably needs rehabilitation for the overwhelming desire to kick the ass of the convicted child molester that just may be living next door to you.