I am a gym whore. I put out to work out! And I work out to chill out! Also, I’m secretly a Spin Doctor. My favorite gym class is Spin. I spin my life into whichever fantasy I want to have when I am cycling—and it feels wonderful. I’ve been having such a good time at the gym that I forgot to keep this blog going. But I’m back again.
My Spin workout is tough, intense, yet effortless. Oh, not that I invest no effort in each 45-60 minute class. It’s just that when the music blasts, I trance into another zone. I could be fantasizing that I’m at a club, a disco, a dance event. The room is pitch black, and I’m GONE. I dance on the bike to the beat of the music, so I get a joyful adrenaline rush. I sing to the tunes, scream, laugh, and r-e-l-e-a-s-e with my bike buddies beside me. And that’s at 6 AM each weekday!
The Spin instructors are fascinating to me. They have some very responsible jobs outside the Spin room. They are investment bankers, bond traders, trial lawyers, hospital administrators, fashion gurus, one is getting a doctorate in physiology, and on and on. I love to find out what they do outside, because I’m probably very nosey. But also, being in the people business, I like to put together composites of who people REALLY are. I LOVE watching these folks integrate mind and body. I don’t know if they add spirit to the mix, but I have enough spirit to go around for everyone.
One of the male Spin instructors who seems quite macho likes his wife to participate in the class. She told me, “He likes me to be here with him.” He saves a bike for her right in front of him. They’ve been married for 10 years, a second marriage, and they often come to the gym together to work out even when he’s not teaching his usual class. It’s lovely to see. I watch their respectful interaction and I wonder why all marriages can’t be this mutually supportive.
In this Spin room, each body on a bike has a different story to tell. I would love to find out about all of them. I’m a Spin Doctor. And I spin my own life into whichever fantasy I want to have when I am cycling. I am truly grateful that my body allows me the agility to work out this way . . .
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Stalker at the Gym
I am a gym whore. I put out to work out! And I work out to chill out!!
About 4 gyms ago, I had met a petite, pretty woman who was as into exercise as I. We began to converse and casually chat about our workouts. She said she was a soccer mom who didn’t work outside the home, and her husband owned a local restaurant. I surmised she knew nothing about me. Since our conversations were always gym-related, that was what we continued to chatter about.
One day, I was clearly in a rush, as I quickly went through my workout routine. She casually asked why I was in such a hurry. I said I had to return to my desk because I was on deadline to complete a book I was writing. She asked, “What kind of book?” I never go into detail about what I’m working on until it’s a finished product. I responded, “It’s a book about relationships.” I didn’t specify whether the subject concerned business relationships, personal relationships, friends’ relationships, neighbors’ relationships, family relationships, or anything else. Just “relationships.” Suddenly, this pert person’s fangs flew out: “That’s interesting. How can you write about relationships when you’re not married?” I stared right through her. In fact, I was married, but I wore no rings to the gym—although that was not any of her business, and that certainly would not define my legitimacy as a writer. Suddenly, this bitch who knew nothing about me, was questioning my credentials and legitimacy. I concluded she was rude and insulting with no class or couth. OK, I’m in the public eye, so what people say to me and about me has a currency as valuable as kitty litter. Since this woman was a non-entity in my life, I walked away and stayed away from anywhere she stood. End of story—or so I thought.
Now, 4 gyms later, she has reappeared! She tries to talk to me, but I ignore her. If someone continues to ignore you, in Tony Soprano language, "Just fuggetaboutit." But this woman is so tenacious, she won’t let go. She even asked my friend why I was giving her the cold shoulder. My friend repeated her stupid comment to her. She admitted she noticed the change in me after that conversation years ago. Without taking responsibility however, she told my friend that SHE couldn’t stand having an enemy at the gym. So now this inconsequential rift has become an issue that is all about her! Please, just let me be in my gym zone in peace.
The other day, while sitting amid a group of people ready to enter the spin room that I was just leaving, she called out, “Gilda, can we talk?” I responded with a thunderous, “NO!” People laughed at her. So now she’s a stalker! I teach people to discard the drainers from their life—and I walk my own talk. If she’s of sound mind, behavior modification will dictate that since she is not getting positive reinforcement from me, she will simply proceed with her workouts—sans ME. If she’s not, perhaps a restraining order will raise her consciousness. Please, just let me be in my gym zone in peace.
About 4 gyms ago, I had met a petite, pretty woman who was as into exercise as I. We began to converse and casually chat about our workouts. She said she was a soccer mom who didn’t work outside the home, and her husband owned a local restaurant. I surmised she knew nothing about me. Since our conversations were always gym-related, that was what we continued to chatter about.
One day, I was clearly in a rush, as I quickly went through my workout routine. She casually asked why I was in such a hurry. I said I had to return to my desk because I was on deadline to complete a book I was writing. She asked, “What kind of book?” I never go into detail about what I’m working on until it’s a finished product. I responded, “It’s a book about relationships.” I didn’t specify whether the subject concerned business relationships, personal relationships, friends’ relationships, neighbors’ relationships, family relationships, or anything else. Just “relationships.” Suddenly, this pert person’s fangs flew out: “That’s interesting. How can you write about relationships when you’re not married?” I stared right through her. In fact, I was married, but I wore no rings to the gym—although that was not any of her business, and that certainly would not define my legitimacy as a writer. Suddenly, this bitch who knew nothing about me, was questioning my credentials and legitimacy. I concluded she was rude and insulting with no class or couth. OK, I’m in the public eye, so what people say to me and about me has a currency as valuable as kitty litter. Since this woman was a non-entity in my life, I walked away and stayed away from anywhere she stood. End of story—or so I thought.
Now, 4 gyms later, she has reappeared! She tries to talk to me, but I ignore her. If someone continues to ignore you, in Tony Soprano language, "Just fuggetaboutit." But this woman is so tenacious, she won’t let go. She even asked my friend why I was giving her the cold shoulder. My friend repeated her stupid comment to her. She admitted she noticed the change in me after that conversation years ago. Without taking responsibility however, she told my friend that SHE couldn’t stand having an enemy at the gym. So now this inconsequential rift has become an issue that is all about her! Please, just let me be in my gym zone in peace.
The other day, while sitting amid a group of people ready to enter the spin room that I was just leaving, she called out, “Gilda, can we talk?” I responded with a thunderous, “NO!” People laughed at her. So now she’s a stalker! I teach people to discard the drainers from their life—and I walk my own talk. If she’s of sound mind, behavior modification will dictate that since she is not getting positive reinforcement from me, she will simply proceed with her workouts—sans ME. If she’s not, perhaps a restraining order will raise her consciousness. Please, just let me be in my gym zone in peace.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
My Inner Personal Plight
I am a gym whore. I put out to work out. Ahhh! Working out today was HEAVEN! At 6 AM I was taking a weight-lifting class to sexy, blaring music. At 7 AM I was spinning. I wanted to take a Zumba “dancercise” class at 8:30 AM, but I decided to get to my office to begin work instead.
Some mornings I’m dragging, especially if I hadn’t had a sound night’s sleep. But today, I was having such fun dropping out of my usual routine! My good friend at the gym, Melanie, was not around on her usual machines. She’s been out for a few weeks. Apparently, she had overdone her workouts, had become dehydrated, and she ended up in the local hospital’s emergency room. My Pilates trainer cautioned me not to over train. So I made a conscious and Gilda-loving decision to drop Zumba from my to-do list today.
I sauntered into the sauna for a couple of minutes. It’s usually empty and I can meditate there. But today there were two lovely women. We chatted about casual things, with me continuing to be mindful about my mission NOT to come across as Dr. Gilda. But there we all were, sweating and vulnerable. One of the women, a beauty, said something negative about herself, and I cautioned her not to put those things out there because they become self-fulfilling prophecies. She said, “Really?” Suddenly, I was again in Dr. Gilda mode. “STOP THAT!” I silently told myself. But the other woman asked some questions, particularly whether I do coaching because she’s been planning on hiring a life coach. She asked me for my business card and I gave it to her.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to totally shut off my professional from my personal. How do celebrities transform into civilians? How might Oprah become Olive-On-the-Street? How might Cher become Cheryl in a big anonymous city? For me, this is another objective, not unlike building up the strength in my scrawny upper body. Too bad the gym doesn’t offer exercises to guide me in this, my inner personal, plight!
Some mornings I’m dragging, especially if I hadn’t had a sound night’s sleep. But today, I was having such fun dropping out of my usual routine! My good friend at the gym, Melanie, was not around on her usual machines. She’s been out for a few weeks. Apparently, she had overdone her workouts, had become dehydrated, and she ended up in the local hospital’s emergency room. My Pilates trainer cautioned me not to over train. So I made a conscious and Gilda-loving decision to drop Zumba from my to-do list today.
I sauntered into the sauna for a couple of minutes. It’s usually empty and I can meditate there. But today there were two lovely women. We chatted about casual things, with me continuing to be mindful about my mission NOT to come across as Dr. Gilda. But there we all were, sweating and vulnerable. One of the women, a beauty, said something negative about herself, and I cautioned her not to put those things out there because they become self-fulfilling prophecies. She said, “Really?” Suddenly, I was again in Dr. Gilda mode. “STOP THAT!” I silently told myself. But the other woman asked some questions, particularly whether I do coaching because she’s been planning on hiring a life coach. She asked me for my business card and I gave it to her.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to totally shut off my professional from my personal. How do celebrities transform into civilians? How might Oprah become Olive-On-the-Street? How might Cher become Cheryl in a big anonymous city? For me, this is another objective, not unlike building up the strength in my scrawny upper body. Too bad the gym doesn’t offer exercises to guide me in this, my inner personal, plight!
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I Fell Off the Figurative Treadmill
I am a gym whore. I put out to work out—or, at least, I DID. It’s been two months since I last wrote in this blog—and I feel guilty about that! I regressed, as my clients often do. My goal was and still is to separate my frenetic Dr. Gilda persona from the Gilda creature who is able to totally let go and forget my work life at the gym. I was doing quite well for a while. But I figuratively fell off the treadmill!!
These past two months of my work life overwhelmed me. I released my new e-book, “How to WIN When Your Mate Cheats,” --http://drgilda.com/ebook/WhenYourMateCheats.htm -- and the continuing stories of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, A-Rod, John Edwards, and other cheaters in the news had me doing tons of media interviews -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2lTsQ0jv1Q. With each breaking story, people were downloading my e-book and registering for personal advice. My website was very busy, and all I thought of was how I could best help these people in their pain.
Oh, sure, I continued to work out. But I was more emotionally present for my clients than I was for myself. Does this sound vaguely familiar to any of you? As I say in my book, “Don’t Bet on the Prince!,” -- http://www.drgilda.com/books.htm -- “Give from the overflow, not from the core.” But this relationship guru gave from the core!! So I failed my own advice.
Well, the good thing about recognizing your foibles is that you can always pick up where you left off. So here I am again, devoted to BEING PRESENT during my bodywork, and it feels great to be back. This morning I took a 6 AM spin class, and I danced and sang on the bike as I pedaled to the loud and raucous music. It was heaven. I was finally once again in my zone. Later today I will take a private lesson with my Pilates reformer trainer. That’s killer work that DEMANDS my presence. So as I get back on the figurative treadmill, I hope I can maintain the separation of work persona from personal persona. Please help me stay focused!
These past two months of my work life overwhelmed me. I released my new e-book, “How to WIN When Your Mate Cheats,” --http://drgilda.com/ebook/WhenYourMateCheats.htm -- and the continuing stories of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, A-Rod, John Edwards, and other cheaters in the news had me doing tons of media interviews -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2lTsQ0jv1Q. With each breaking story, people were downloading my e-book and registering for personal advice. My website was very busy, and all I thought of was how I could best help these people in their pain.
Oh, sure, I continued to work out. But I was more emotionally present for my clients than I was for myself. Does this sound vaguely familiar to any of you? As I say in my book, “Don’t Bet on the Prince!,” -- http://www.drgilda.com/books.htm -- “Give from the overflow, not from the core.” But this relationship guru gave from the core!! So I failed my own advice.
Well, the good thing about recognizing your foibles is that you can always pick up where you left off. So here I am again, devoted to BEING PRESENT during my bodywork, and it feels great to be back. This morning I took a 6 AM spin class, and I danced and sang on the bike as I pedaled to the loud and raucous music. It was heaven. I was finally once again in my zone. Later today I will take a private lesson with my Pilates reformer trainer. That’s killer work that DEMANDS my presence. So as I get back on the figurative treadmill, I hope I can maintain the separation of work persona from personal persona. Please help me stay focused!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Low Rent Gym Behavior
I am a gym whore. I put out to work out. Sometimes the energy I expend derives few benefits.
One of the gyms I joined is a huge subterranean workout room—really, one enormous underground asylum—with no natural light, but blinding hanging spotlights that make it annoying to bench-press on your back. Very poorly planned! Unlike the racquetball gym, this one has tons of treadmills, ellipticals, and a few other devices. When it opened, all the equipment in this place worked.
However, as time went on, one machine after another broke down and was never repaired. There were also leaking ceilings and irregular sunken floors. There were no classes, so we were stuck with the humid, dingy dungeon that now sported flying insects with little fat wings. These creatures derived gym privileges without paying membership fees, and nobody did anything about the interlopers.
I knew this was an unsavory atmosphere. Then I saw a piece in the newspaper about a personal trainer actually dying at his athletic club due to "unsafe conditions" including mold. Ewww!
To make matters worse, ugly places bring out the ugly in people. Because of the putrid air beneath ground level, the Department of Health told the owners they needed to provide air circulation. Suddenly, giant sized fans appeared in a few spots on the floor. That’s when fights began.
Garbage man Charlie took great pride in looking in the mirror at his extraordinary pecs and George-Hamilton tan. When his workouts ended, he left buckets of sweat on the machines, as a male dog would mark his spot on a tree with urine. How attractive! Charlie bragged that the sweat was the reason for his sculpted body.
Secretary Marian was attractive and outspoken and going through menopause. She announced that she was constantly hot flashing and needed to be cooled. Charlie insisted that a gym is for sweating. Marian countered that she already sweat too much. Charlie ignored her words, went over to the giant black fan, and with all his might, pulled the metal switch to turn it off. (Actually, he didn't need his might to simply pull the chain.) Marian interrupted her workout, furiously got off her treadmill, stormed over to the same fan, and turned it back on. They got into a shouting match, then a shoving match. Charlie was so angry, he ran to the fan again, this time knocking it down and ripping the chain off completely. Since he was used to lifting heavy garbage cans, tackling a floor fan was a cinch for him. Two other men joined the fray. People were screaming at each other, and a few punches were swung. Before we knew it, the police had been called.
I know that Jerry Seinfeld's wife met him while they were working out at a gym in Manhattan. I'm sure she never saw him tackling a floor fan. The ugliness of the low rent behavior at my gym is hardly a turn-on for meeting men. I need to find another place to work out. Is it any wonder I'm a gym whore??
One of the gyms I joined is a huge subterranean workout room—really, one enormous underground asylum—with no natural light, but blinding hanging spotlights that make it annoying to bench-press on your back. Very poorly planned! Unlike the racquetball gym, this one has tons of treadmills, ellipticals, and a few other devices. When it opened, all the equipment in this place worked.
However, as time went on, one machine after another broke down and was never repaired. There were also leaking ceilings and irregular sunken floors. There were no classes, so we were stuck with the humid, dingy dungeon that now sported flying insects with little fat wings. These creatures derived gym privileges without paying membership fees, and nobody did anything about the interlopers.
I knew this was an unsavory atmosphere. Then I saw a piece in the newspaper about a personal trainer actually dying at his athletic club due to "unsafe conditions" including mold. Ewww!
To make matters worse, ugly places bring out the ugly in people. Because of the putrid air beneath ground level, the Department of Health told the owners they needed to provide air circulation. Suddenly, giant sized fans appeared in a few spots on the floor. That’s when fights began.
Garbage man Charlie took great pride in looking in the mirror at his extraordinary pecs and George-Hamilton tan. When his workouts ended, he left buckets of sweat on the machines, as a male dog would mark his spot on a tree with urine. How attractive! Charlie bragged that the sweat was the reason for his sculpted body.
Secretary Marian was attractive and outspoken and going through menopause. She announced that she was constantly hot flashing and needed to be cooled. Charlie insisted that a gym is for sweating. Marian countered that she already sweat too much. Charlie ignored her words, went over to the giant black fan, and with all his might, pulled the metal switch to turn it off. (Actually, he didn't need his might to simply pull the chain.) Marian interrupted her workout, furiously got off her treadmill, stormed over to the same fan, and turned it back on. They got into a shouting match, then a shoving match. Charlie was so angry, he ran to the fan again, this time knocking it down and ripping the chain off completely. Since he was used to lifting heavy garbage cans, tackling a floor fan was a cinch for him. Two other men joined the fray. People were screaming at each other, and a few punches were swung. Before we knew it, the police had been called.
I know that Jerry Seinfeld's wife met him while they were working out at a gym in Manhattan. I'm sure she never saw him tackling a floor fan. The ugliness of the low rent behavior at my gym is hardly a turn-on for meeting men. I need to find another place to work out. Is it any wonder I'm a gym whore??
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Shut Up, Gilda
I am a Gym Whore. I put out to work out!
Real growth is not allowing other people’s business to bother you. Apparently, I’m still a work in progress. That gorgeous gym instructor, Cynthia, newly out of her 10-year relationship with her live-in boyfriend with whom she bought a house, is still hanging with her new guy. He’s everywhere she is, like a leach. (I bet he looks similar to her ex!) One of her girl groupies is obviously not happy about this liaison. If looks could kill, this chica sends stabbing daggers when she looks at the couple cavorting together before class. I KNOW that Cynthia needs to chill before entering another romance. I continue to keep my big mouth shut. I repeat, “At the gym, I’m Gilda, not Dr. Gilda. Shut up already!” But my Dr. Gilda self explodes. This morning, it was nearly time for class, and Cynthia and her honey, sartorially decked in wife-beater apparel, continued to joke around. In my mind, she should have been attending to preparations for our class. Really, my motive is to interrupt their flow. I was unable to control myself. I can't blame it on the time of day or my mood. I simply screamed out, “OK, it’s 6:30. Let’s begin already.” My demands fell on deaf ears. Cynthia waited to finish her banter before she began the class.
I scold myself: “Gilda, stop trying to help people who don’t even know they need help. Let Dr. Gilda take over when people reach out TO HER.” Oh, this painful dichotomy! In the back of my mind, I hear Oprah and Eckhart say, “Be present.” My self-scolding continues, “When you’re at the gym, transcend into your Gym Whore persona—and don’t let anything interfere with the enjoyment you derive there.” I continue to try. But I still worry about Cynthia... Shut up, Gilda, so that Dr. Gilda can do her job!!
Real growth is not allowing other people’s business to bother you. Apparently, I’m still a work in progress. That gorgeous gym instructor, Cynthia, newly out of her 10-year relationship with her live-in boyfriend with whom she bought a house, is still hanging with her new guy. He’s everywhere she is, like a leach. (I bet he looks similar to her ex!) One of her girl groupies is obviously not happy about this liaison. If looks could kill, this chica sends stabbing daggers when she looks at the couple cavorting together before class. I KNOW that Cynthia needs to chill before entering another romance. I continue to keep my big mouth shut. I repeat, “At the gym, I’m Gilda, not Dr. Gilda. Shut up already!” But my Dr. Gilda self explodes. This morning, it was nearly time for class, and Cynthia and her honey, sartorially decked in wife-beater apparel, continued to joke around. In my mind, she should have been attending to preparations for our class. Really, my motive is to interrupt their flow. I was unable to control myself. I can't blame it on the time of day or my mood. I simply screamed out, “OK, it’s 6:30. Let’s begin already.” My demands fell on deaf ears. Cynthia waited to finish her banter before she began the class.
I scold myself: “Gilda, stop trying to help people who don’t even know they need help. Let Dr. Gilda take over when people reach out TO HER.” Oh, this painful dichotomy! In the back of my mind, I hear Oprah and Eckhart say, “Be present.” My self-scolding continues, “When you’re at the gym, transcend into your Gym Whore persona—and don’t let anything interfere with the enjoyment you derive there.” I continue to try. But I still worry about Cynthia... Shut up, Gilda, so that Dr. Gilda can do her job!!
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Gym Whore or Advice-Giver?
I am a gym whore. I put out to work out! But today I wasn't so sure.
This morning I had a difficult time of separating my “role” (as Eckhart Tolle would call it) of "Dr. Gilda, Relationship Expert" from "Gym Whore Gilda." This is what happened. Cynthia is a beautiful thirty-year-old fitness instructor who has been running classes in several of the gyms I joined. So I know her story well. By day, she works in a hospital with cancer patients. (All these gym instructors have rich other lives than just the gym.) Her radiant smile tells you how dedicated she must be to the people she services. But during gym time, she’s in her other world, teaching 15 different classes at different locations, and sweetly befriending everyone. Cynthia is just pure sugar. She even has her girl groupies who take her classes, even if it means that they must travel out of their way to get to her.
Cynthia has known her boyfriend most of her adult life. Within the last few years, they bought a house together. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to marry him. Finally, after 10 years of dating, she decided she didn’t want to continue the relationship. In the locker room, while prettying herself for her day job, she explained, “I moved out of my mother’s house and into his. Now I need some breathing space.” I was delighted that she was thinking rationally. She still had the legal mess of the house ownership to go through. Without using an advising tone, I asked, “Are you seeing anyone else right now?” Smartly, she said she didn’t want to complicate her life with a guy at this time. She needed to find herself. I nodded approvingly. I became conscious that I could instantly jump into Dr. Gilda advice-giver mode, and I have promised myself to keep my gym life sacred and separate from my work life. I felt good that this gorgeous young woman I knew for many years was on the right track.
Just one day later, Cynthia had another groupie—but for the first time, this one was male. He met her at her car, he walked her to her teaching studio, and he kissed her good-bye in front of everyone! I chided her with, “Hey, girl, is that your latest?,” as though we had never conversed about this the day before. She smiled, “He could be a potential.” My bubble burst. She should not relationship-hop from one romance to another. This is the stuff I teach. This is the stuff I know. She NEEDS alone time. But I zipped my lip. It was my turn to grow now. Gilda, shut up, put on your iPod, get back to the equipment, and grunt!
This morning I had a difficult time of separating my “role” (as Eckhart Tolle would call it) of "Dr. Gilda, Relationship Expert" from "Gym Whore Gilda." This is what happened. Cynthia is a beautiful thirty-year-old fitness instructor who has been running classes in several of the gyms I joined. So I know her story well. By day, she works in a hospital with cancer patients. (All these gym instructors have rich other lives than just the gym.) Her radiant smile tells you how dedicated she must be to the people she services. But during gym time, she’s in her other world, teaching 15 different classes at different locations, and sweetly befriending everyone. Cynthia is just pure sugar. She even has her girl groupies who take her classes, even if it means that they must travel out of their way to get to her.
Cynthia has known her boyfriend most of her adult life. Within the last few years, they bought a house together. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to marry him. Finally, after 10 years of dating, she decided she didn’t want to continue the relationship. In the locker room, while prettying herself for her day job, she explained, “I moved out of my mother’s house and into his. Now I need some breathing space.” I was delighted that she was thinking rationally. She still had the legal mess of the house ownership to go through. Without using an advising tone, I asked, “Are you seeing anyone else right now?” Smartly, she said she didn’t want to complicate her life with a guy at this time. She needed to find herself. I nodded approvingly. I became conscious that I could instantly jump into Dr. Gilda advice-giver mode, and I have promised myself to keep my gym life sacred and separate from my work life. I felt good that this gorgeous young woman I knew for many years was on the right track.
Just one day later, Cynthia had another groupie—but for the first time, this one was male. He met her at her car, he walked her to her teaching studio, and he kissed her good-bye in front of everyone! I chided her with, “Hey, girl, is that your latest?,” as though we had never conversed about this the day before. She smiled, “He could be a potential.” My bubble burst. She should not relationship-hop from one romance to another. This is the stuff I teach. This is the stuff I know. She NEEDS alone time. But I zipped my lip. It was my turn to grow now. Gilda, shut up, put on your iPod, get back to the equipment, and grunt!
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