When a sixth person I know ran off with a gym instructor, I had to wonder what it was about the species that made them so attractive to people you wouldn’t suspect of harbouring forbidden passions. Without wanting to appear judgemental, I admit that attempting to engage your average trainer in conversation isn’t easy — not least when you’re attempting humour as a form of procrastination against their singular focus to make sure you don’t cheat while lifting weights with your legs “15 times, three sets each”.
“Can’t I just do it 45 times together?” I ask. “15 times, three sets,” the trainer will brook no interference in his instructions. “But I don’t want to take a break,” I say. “No break, yes,” he agrees, “15 times, three sets.” “15 three’s 45,” I point out, “remember your tables?” “No tables,” he is determined, “no chest, today we will do only legs.”
I don’t want to do “legs”, I don’t want to do arms or the chest either, but the instructor won’t let me chicken out. “15 times, three sets,” he coaxes me, “you will become like Salman Khan.” “I’m a writer,” I gasp, “my brain burns up calories, I don’t need any exercise.” “You can write about me,” he pats his biceps, “I have many” – he pauses to think – “girl friends and boy friends.”
Some masochistic people might find such narcissism appealing — but seriously, would you trade in a sulking husband and brats who answer back for someone who can’t help admiring himself in the mirror even as he instructs you how to crouch, or bend, or lift? “Oh, honey,” says my wife with regret, “you don’t really know women, do you?” “Perhaps it’s the Stockholm syndrome,” I explain to my wife, “when you think of yourself as a victim, you end up sympathising with the person who’s responsible for your suffering.” “I’m a victim of acute misery,” my wife rationalises, “but it hasn’t” – she considers a little – “awakened any secret desires.”
I suggest that all that sweating (and swearing) at the gym hasn’t engendered any special affection in me for my instructors. “Lift both your legs together,” says the one who’s assigned to me on the day. “I can’t,” I say, “I’ll fall down.” “You can’t fall down,” he says, “you’re lying on your back.” “You can’t know unless you’ve studied gravity,” I point out to him. “Lift both your legs together,” he insists again. “I can lift both my hands instead,” I offer. He looks at me with disgust, “You don’t want abs like mine?” I don’t want abs like his, I don’t want abs period, “I don’t even know what abs are,” I say to him.
A month of grunting and groaning and cheating on the count of 15 times, three sets, but I haven’t missed a day yet, so it is with reluctant admiration that my gym trainer seizes my hand, shakes it in acknowledgement. In a career spanning three decades, I’ve interviewed movie stars, had tea with four different occupants of Rashtrapati Bhavan, participated in a television game show, schmoozed with the glitterati, walked the ramp for a fashion designer, moderated a panel discussion with a Nobel laureate, watched polo with royalty, shaken hands with Mother Teresa, been blessed by the Karmapa, but nothing has come as close to the heady feeling I’m experiencing now. “I think he likes me,” I gloat to my wife, “he shook my hand.” “He’s probably just friendly,” says my wife. I shake my head. “But you needn’t worry,” I add, “I’m not running away with my gym instructor” — yet.
