Ain't Gonna Look The Other Way (Part 2)

This is part 2. Part 1 is here.

I was 35 pounds away from healthy. But I was 65 pounds away from almost dead.

For that, I ordered pancakes. It was my treat.

I was staring at the street from the patio I was sitting on feeling very full of myself for my exercise, how I’d left LA, and would be returning for just a day and a half, having lost nearly 25% of my body weight. And it’s not that I’d quote that number to anyone, except Rich, if he happened to notice during our hug that I felt a fraction of my size (he was a mathematician, after all. I know he likes precise numbers).

Walking toward me as I sat was a girl about my age. She was dressed in a white sweat suit that seemed to be fitted by a tailor to her frame, a Self-Magazine type cover model girl, brought to us today by the good people at BeBe athletic Wear For Women. She wore a hat, so all I noticed were her freckles and that her hair was pulled back with a very basic rubber band. She probably had gotten up earlier than me to go running twice as far, and probably didn’t even like to listen to music while she did it, preferring to meditate in motion. This is how I thought people who did not have a weight problem experienced life—far less needy and far more disciplined than me.

If she had a boyfriend, I would find a reason to call her a bitch, under my breath.

Her boyfriend stumbled, sort of bowlegged toward a white plastic patio table. His sheer Sacramento King’s replica tank top was loose and it grazed my arm. This bitch sat with her back to me, so I got to stare at her boyfriend.

His tank top showcased his matching chain linked bicep tattoos. Oh wait, is that ink on his neck I saw, too? Oh Yes. It said “In memory of Baby Girl” across his larynx, though it appeared his tattoo artist hadn’t read Elements of Style, for “Baby Girl” was not identified with the correct capitalization. The real question now, was who is this Baby Girl, or was his tattoo in remembrance of all the baby girls of years past. It was hard to tell without spell check.

Inked up dudes with shaved head are very sexy in Sacramento. These are the guys who usually have trucks with decals for their own drywall business on the side of the driver’s seat. And some of these guys didn’t even inherit the business from their dads. They party hard at Irish pubs and pool halls on the edge of town and I had seen one in the gym a few days ago sticking a syringe in his butt. Maybe that’s why he walked bowlegged, or maybe it was because he was hung over, or maybe walking sort of like a lame horse was the irony I was missing at the time.

By the end of breakfast, I had figured out that this girl was probably some sort of lobbyist or engineer, because she bought breakfast for both of them, so she had to have a decent job and no dental hygienist or payroll specialist could afford Café Bernardo. Hell, I couldn’t either. This was just a special day, because I had gotten up so early and finished my run. Still, I was jealous of this girl, who had such a hot boyfriend but as my mother taught me from very young, when people had something I wanted, they were nothing more than lucky yuppies.

I saw a bruise on her arm, peaking under her Bebe t-shirt. It was think and purple, like a rotten plum. I was sort of staring at it when she looked over at me for a split second, or maybe it was a full second. Who knows that early in the morning after such an intense run on my own for the very first time? When I looked at the bruise she covered it by pulling her shirt down a little and turned away. The waiter asked her if she was done with her breakfast burrito. She hadn’t had more than two bites. “Oh yes, sorry,” she said . She pushed the plate toward him and leaned far back in her chair so he wouldn’t have to bring his hand to close to her.

I still had two pancakes left, but I was full. I could tell she wasn’t. Girlfriend looked sort of discontented. She sipped coffee quietly. He burped with his mouth open real loud, and she didn’t appear to be surprised by it. She signed the tab and they walked off, never speaking a word to each other during the meal.

I ate the rest of my pancakes for her.

Heaven Help My Heart

"Heaven Help My Heart"

Two smilin' faces, that's how it used to be
What once was forever is now a faded memory
The perfect illusion
For a while I guess it was
Without explanation
The bloom fell off the rose

[Chorus]

Heaven help my heart
'Cause it's a lot like me
I'm wonderin' when this all will end
And I'll find the love I need
I know it's out there somewhere
Somehow I still believe
I'm asking please
Heaven help my heart

This world can get crazy
These are troubled times
I'd walk through the fire
If love is what I'd find
It's out of my hands now
So I put my faith in you
And I say a little prayer
And hope that it comes true

[Repeat Chorus]

Aint Gonna Look The Other Way (Part 1)

By the first week of August in 2003 I was down to 210. I hadn’t weighed that little since 8th grade, and I remember it because my Dad was sort of proud back then about it. He knocked on my door one day while I was staring at WWF magazines full color spread on The Ultimate Warrior. “Hey, Kiddo,” he started. “The Doctor says you weight five pounds more than me! Can I wear your old jeans to work today? Mine are all dirty.”

I don’t remember being upset about this moment. I think I even helped him choose between the Stussy and the Mossimo brand, and he went with the Mossimo because they fit around the ankle better. In junior high school, I really enjoyed the connection we had over clothes and Melrose Place. Most of my girlfriends had a similar connection with their moms.

On the first Saturday of August, I went to LA for the first time since I’d left to lose weight. It was my friends Nick and Andrea’s wedding, but this had been the trip where I’d see Rich for the first time since he destroyed that lady bug and I destroyed that donut shop.

The day I left, I knew the plane would be leaving at 11 AM, so I got up at 7 AM and went for an hour run/walk on my own which I had never done before. Up until this day I had only run on the tread mill or in gym class by force or with Sheila (where you’ll remember she told me I ran like a girl). Though the decision to do this was moderately impulsive, I felt that if I worked out hard today, then maybe when I got off the airplane I would appear even thinner and it would somehow make Richs’ big brown eyes even bigger, and maybe they’d even turn blue like the Crystal Gayle song I’d boogied to in my toddlerhood, because I was so hot in my new size 36 khakis that he couldn’t stand it. So in reality, I am lying. It was quite a calculated decision, and not impulsive at all, this first ever outdoor run.

I made a playlist with my usual 6 songs on it that I would use on the elliptical for 20 minutes at the 24 Hour Shitiness, but the whole time on this run I only listened to Bootylicious on repeat, because I knew this trip was about proving my point. That Rich would in fact, not be ready for my jelly (weight loss). I got all the way from 18th and E to McKinley Park where I ran for about 2 laps. I had never run to McKinley Park alone, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Today was the day I’d finally see Rich again Rich would finally see me again.

I only walked once, when my first generation Real Audio mp3 player ran out of its 45 minutes of battery. On the way home I stopped for breakfast at the swanky Café Bernardo for a sit down breakfast. It was 8 AM, and I was proud of myself for being the only person there because I was up early, and it was a Saturday, and I had already been running and that made me a normal person. I was more than normal. I was healthy, kind of. You know, like a bowl of guacamole.

Part 2

Superhero or Scam Artist?

Superhero or Scam Artist?

How Personal Trainers Convince You To Give Them Your Rent Money

By Sean Hetherington

Certified Personal Trainer

Since some bodybuilder and his acolytes invented the career of Personal Trainer back in the 1970’s, we’ve taken on all sorts of interesting titles, not the least of which is Superhero. While it can looks like we’re flying above your local bakery, hoping to pick you up like Superman did to Lois Lane, and whisk you to Paris where you’ll be thin, happy, married, rich, and in the good graces of God, we are simply, and mostly just out of work actors trying to make a buck by hanging out in our favorite place: The Gym.

Sometimes after a few sessions with us, you leave feeling scammed out of dough:

How did Gwyneth and Mariah get such good trainers and mine is such a Vinnie and where the hell are my abs and wedding rings!

Here are the skills we lie about in order to get your business and that you blindly believe so as to not have to make that portion-controlled, balanced meal. Before you spend this week’s organic grocery budget on our “life-changing services,” be advised of our sexy Witch Doctory:

We can’t shapeshift

Our job is to count back from 10 and re-rack your weights. We cannot take on the dimensions of your freezer and know when you’re binging on those Skinny cows. But if you’re not losing weight after months of our workouts, we usually know that’s what’s going on and are not about to take the blame, Mister. We might even call you out on it, if we think you’re impressed by tough love, and by impressed I mean, interested in buying an extra ten sessions. An hour on a stationary cycle will not undo the calories of a Thanksgiving feast in July, so if you have an overeating issue, be realistic about what a trainer is capable of helping you with.

We’re not Ironman

We can’t remove the arm fat that’s ruining your life by implanting go-go gadget steel beams or by prescribing you more tricep pulls, push-ups, or dips. Spot training is not nearly as effective as regular cardio and a sensible diet. Problems aren’t erased by the dumbbell tinkering, but managed through the eating and the thinking, so consider a food diary and body image support groups like OA.

We don’t have x-ray vision

If something hurts, tell us. When you wince, we assume it’s good pain.

Pain is good? Well, no, fatigue is good, and that’s what builds muscle and burns calories.

There is nothing worse than losing a client because you’ve re-injured yourself. If you got in a car accident on the way home from that Milli Vanilli concert in ’89, and it still hurts sometimes when you lug your groceries up the stairs, tell us about it before we make you give us a piggy back ride on the treadmill.

We are not an Extra Terrestrial

We don’t take on your bigger feelings (intentionally), or directly feel your pain, and we don’t get thinner when you get thinner, so as invested as we are in your weight loss, it’s not our journey. A good trainer knows that and will not be calling you at home to make sure you feel beautiful after each of our workouts. Our greater goal is that you like us enough to refer us to friends, especially if those friends are Nora Ephron and/or Steven Spielberg.

We’re not Bruce Wayne

We haven’t made a fortune already to support our 5 AM volunteer vigilante work of your fitness. In fact, if you could move your session to around 1 o’ clock so we can catch up on sleep from bartending till late last night, that’d be fabulous. We have bills. When we’ve put on our bat suit upon seeing the shining spotlight of cottage cheese thighs in the twilight sky, please remember to bring a check or cash. Even Commissioner Gordon gave Batman a per diem. We like for you to pay in packages because it helps us design your exercise program for you in advance, based on how long you’ve invested in this program. Ask us for a deal on bulk buys. We love them.

We’re not dog whisperers

We can’t “glamour” you into liking this exercise. And we don’t like yelling at you, either. We want you to succeed and feel good. So when you get bitchy about how hard this is or how we’re trying to kill you, hoping we’ll bark back at you like a drill seargent—know that we’re totes uncomfy, Girl. We’re here to motivate you with positive vibes, cheering you on as Third Base Coach, in hopes that you get a hot body that gets you to third base more often. Remember we were certified to do this over a weekend and have no formal training as shrinks. We’re experts on drink breaks, not daddy issues.

We’re not vampires

We can’t speed walk to your bar and knock that fourth kick-ass margarita out of your hands and then lock lips in some taboo client/trainer forbidden love affair. That clichéd gym scene you saw in that dirty cable movie was a fantasy. Regularly, we see your nose hairs, smell your sweat and breath, and we know your hip size, down to the quarter inch which is not nearly as hot as it sounds. You notice they skip that scene in the triple X cinema and just talk about squats.

We are not 80’s pop R & B group Club Nouveau

But lean on us, anyway. Trainers can genuinely help, and a lot of us used to be overweight or underweight, so it’s personal. We know the muscle groups and we’re handy with a tape measure. We try to keep your hour with us fun and we have terrific resources for those folks who do all the things we can’t. Therapists, nutritionists, and chiropractors are all in our rolodex, and if we’ve told you that you don’t need one of those because we once rescued a litter of kittens from a burning house, then you’re being scammed, not saved.

Remember the Moo

Remember the Moo

From the Spoken Word Event Supershow January 2008

By Sean Hetherington

I tell my boyfriend all the time, “When you find me laying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, curtains shut, raisin pudding and peanut butter dripping off my chin…swimming in the impending doom of my finances…nothing’s wrong with me! I’m just keepin’ it real.”

My mom used to take me to juvenile hall to chase rabbits. It’s still the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She’d jump out of her BMW325ES faster than me, locking the doors before I could even open mine and start chasing strays near the iron gates.

During that first visit at age 7, she said, “I want you to become a professional country music drummer, but if you’re no good then you should be a psychologist. You’re so good at listening to people’s problems and helping them. And psychologists don’t go to school for as long as psychiatrists, which is good for you. It’s better than being a doctor because you’re like me. Bad at math and science and mutli-tasking.”

“What’s multi-tasking?” I asked while I fed a bunny a mini-carrot.

“No more questions, Sean.” She’d whine. “I’m tryin to chase the rabbits!”

My mom worked for medical insurance companies most of her life as a claims adjuster. She’d work about three to six months before coming home in a panic with a vision about her co-workers, “They hate me. Everyone hates me, all because I drive a BMW and they’re jealous.” And she believed it. Paranoia was my mothers version of spirituality.

Her jobs started all the same. She loved them. She loved everyone. Mary sat next to her and is a Christian, and Mom appreciated how generous Mary was by sharing her chicken salad sandwich with her since she didn’t have time to make lunch today because her curling iron burned her forehead. Then there was Joanie who was a doll AND her boss. She was pregnant and Mom was obsessed with this woman and her soon to-be-born baby, whom she called the “half-breed bun in the oven.”

But a mistake on Mom’s paycheck showed up once, and Mom just knew that Joanie fudged her timecard because she was jealous of Mom’s car. She told Mary her paranoid theory in confidence. Joanie heard about it, called my Mom and Mary into her office and a screaming match ensued.

She had picked me up early from school that day. I got in the car with the license plate JANS325 and we went to the mall. Let me remind the reader, I was seven.

“No. Not red, SEAN. You’re too heavyset for red. Black is slimming!” She said fitfully as we walked around Millers Outpost looking for the outfit for my 3^rd grade portrait. “You can’t be in bright colors. I’m a SPRING! and that shirt’s too expensive, anyway. Especially since I just quit my job.”

“What happened?” I asked. Even before I was 10, I knew to ask open and general questions in the beginning of one of her stories, then gradually point my questions more specifically so she could identify her feelings and try to find a pragmatic solution.

She told me about Jackie. Mom told Joanie that she was sick of being picked on for having a nicer car and for being white (Joanie was half African American which my mother explained must be why she took the bus to work) and that Joanie had under-calculated 1.5 hours of hard, miserable work that Mom used to spend on her kids, and someday she’d understand what that’s like if she didn’t spend all of her money on crack, and that Mary was no Christian, but actually a crybaby who was probably possessed. Mom had seen Mary’s drivers license. She was born on June 6, 1966. 6/6/66. An extra 6 for backstabbing. So she was either the devil or a dyke. Then she told Joanie that she was quitting and her attorney would be calling her in 15 minutes.

Just then, Joanie’s water broke and she had to be rushed to the hospital. No joke. And that’s when mom decided she missed me so she came to pick me up to go shopping.

“Your dad isn’t making any money these days. We had to borrow money from your grandparents to pay the electric bill and the house payment. I pray they don’t die before we pay them back.”

I knew our house payment was $1632 a month because she had shown it to me the month before when she asked if she could borrow $300 from my allowance envelope to pay for the remainder. I happily nodded that it was ok and went back to watching American Gladiators.

On the way home from the mall that day that she sent a woman into premature labor, Mom took the long way so we could go moo at the cows. A farm tucked behind the Safeway just outside of Folsom, California was home to all of the cows you could ever want to talk to. We rolled down the windows and Mom mooed and mooed and mooed. This was my mom at her happiest. She loves animals. She was so good with them. She would have been an amazing zoologist, and I would have told her that but compliments made her very sober with self-doubt.

SOO-EY! MOO! A cop pulled her over and wrote her a ticket for speeding while mooing. I wanted asked her if that was what multi-tasking was but knew better. She started to cry. “How am I going to pay for this ticket? We don’t have any money. I guess I’ll have to go get another job I’ll hate.”

I helped her look for a job while she lay in the dark in the living room on a couch covered in dirty laundry one weekday afternoon. “Mom, Chubby’s diner is hiring. You could be a waitress and talk to everyone all day.”

“No! We’re not good at that, Sean because you have to be fast and be a good salesperson. I’m like you. Clumsy and uncoordinated. I’ll go back to insurance.”

And she did for another 19 years. She’s disability retired from stress and a permanently torn shoulder due to years of pissed-off paper shuffling. She calls me a lot because she’s lonely and on meds that make her see rabbits and cows in her sleep. And I have to be careful how often I answer because I realize that her greatest challenge is distinguishing between misery and comfort and mine is recognizing the difference between her feelings and mine.

On a long voicemail that I listened to on a brake from my job waiting tables (in a bright red tie I might add) she said she hoped that I was making the best of my life and didn’t end up like her with a job she’d hated and no friends. I realized that my mother was in her own fucked up way, letting me off the hook for her unhappiness. It was no Maya Angelou poetry or Barack Obama stump speech but that’s because being articulate implies a certain level of adult communication skills. And receiving attention for excellence is her worst nightmare, the problem for my family though, and for me still, is the wide range between incompetence, adulthood, and excellence. But in that rambling voicemail she was saying that she knew I had never harvested the seedlings of what she had been robbed of, a sense of worth.

And on that day, March 11^th, I put in my two weeks notice to the job I hated, dramatized and brooded over. After losing over 100 pounds and becoming a certified personal trainer, I had always wanted to make my living just as my mother had predicted, helping people, in this case losing weight. But I never threw my balls to the wall with this exciting career because I was raised to believe that money comes infrequently, with lots of soapy drama.

So for the first month working in a career that brings me more smiles and cash than I think I deserve, I’ve come this close to having a nervous breakdown about 22 times.

I had constructed a 3-inch stainless steel ceiling with Dolby speakers screaming, “You’re physically incapable, spiritually not chosen, and mentally incompetent to create joy” ever since those days at Joovy Hallz. Realizing the contrary, now, 20 years later, that happiness and security are mine if I’ll just smile and shut the fuck up… has made me absolutely insane…AND THIS, I say to my boyfriend, is why I need my dark, laundry-littered room and my super-sized custard with a straw. Because I will come out of this spell eventually, but until that happens, I need a safe place to chase the rabbits and get my moo on.

Functional

It was my twenty-fourth birthday, on October nineteenth, which I would mark as the beginning of the end of my functional fat life. Up until then I could get away with being the funny guy that occasionally went over the line by saying hurtful things to friends, family, and coworkers. I was always forgiven, because as I'd overheard my high school student government advisor and German teacher say to my senior class homecoming planning committee, "he just seems so unhappy as it is, so why would you listen to anything he says?”

Leave it to the German teacher to excuse politeness.

Rich PART 2

This is Part 2, part 1 is here.

“So, what’s the best part of being 23?” Rich asks.

He’s wearing an unintentionally muscle defining, brown, long-sleeve knit shirt. At dinner, I realize why Rich is so different from every other male friend I’ve ever fallen in love with. He looks me in the eye. And though I can’t do it back, I feel like a proper noun with Rich.

Up until now, I always think of myself as the disclaimer Pat Sajak uses to introduce the next puzzle on Wheel of Fortune, “The next puzzle category is ‘noun’ but I need to remind you that ‘noun’ does not always mean proper person, thing or place.” I’m certainly not one of those either. You'd never capitalize "fat guy," so why bother with sean.

“Umm…nothing, really…I think this might be the year I take a shower at least once a week” I joke. Of course it's a joke. I showered three times before tonight. I used some of my mom's "Banana Smoothie " shower gel. She bought me 6 bottles for Christmas this year.

Rich is belly laughing at my very dumb joke. “Where do you come up with these so fast?”

Rich thinks I’m the funniest person alive, and that makes me want to touch his body in the dark, and only in the dark.

“I have something I want to show you. Will you come back to my house with me?” He asks.

It can’t be this easy, I think. I’m sure it’s some new light switch he built out of straw or some other MacGyver shit. Or maybe it’s a fucking surprise party. I’m in no mood for that. All of my friends are girls and this is boys’ night out. Jesus, leave us alone. We're going to watch the Wiz later.

Back at Rich’s he shows me his new raised bed and the finished skylight. He’s lying on his bed while I’m in the chair. “It’s amazing to me how you just make shit. You’re really smart.” I say, trying to think of a way to turn my compliment into a backhanded one to keep it light, it's my verbal way of cleaning up my own drool.

“Me? Rich asks. “C’mon, I’m just bored when I come home. You’re all the way up in Burbank. It’s hard to meet people, so I just try to stay busy.” He looks away. “Come sit up here. Look at the stars.”

Rich just called me up to his bed. What the fuck is going on. Is he going to kill me? Not wanting to be eternally disappointed I stutter, “Nonno, its ok.”

“C’mon, this took me three months and I want you to see.” He offers me help climbing up the ladder to his bed. I'm Embarrassed that he won’t be able to hold me up so I refuse help. The steps creek as I raise one fat ham hock at a time up to the perfectly made linens. Wow, Creative, strong, and clean. He's like mid-century cabinetry.

We lay next to each other looking at the stars. Rich knows what all of their names are. “That’s O’rien, and that’s the Dipper.” Our legs are getting closer to each other and before I can object, Rich is holding my right hand above our heads showing me how to squash stars with my fingers.

“This is awesome.” He stares at me and then puts his hand on my thigh and plops his head back.

His hand is still on my knee. I’m officially a mental patient now. My mind is racing. How can I he be doing this? Is this gay? Is Rich into me? Is this just a charity birthday present? Is he done being Catholic? Is he a chub chaser? Does he think I’m gay?”

A lady bug crawls across his hand and he smashes it. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves to go clean his hand at the perfect time, because I need to adjust my underwear and hide the first authentic boner I’ve ever had, one brought on by actual human touch from a dude, not one where I'm imagining myself as the woman being made love to by that other Cinemax actor on the TV in front of me. He comes back and I look for every reason to end this perfect moment, before I'm caught, before he starts to pray or something, before I'm made a fool of and never have a chance to fix it.

Wait a second. He killed that Lady Bug. He obliterated an animal. I have my out. I'll channel my inner-P.E.T.A. and stop this faggy moment under the stars. “How can you be so pro-life but then go and smash a lady bug?” I ask him.

“What?" He asks. He looks at me for a moment and giggles, cuing me to laugh, but I don't. "It’s a bug. This is not a child. An insect is at the bottom of the chain.”

He goes on and on with some Ivy-league bullshit about natural selection and how God breathes life into humanity. I argue evolution and Roe versus Wade and Reality Bites and I’m raising my voice about how great the right to choose is, all the while thinking in my mind Why did you put your hand on my knee? How can you be into someone this fat? Please don’t tell anyone else about my boner. It would kill my mother. No, literally, it would kill my mother.

“I just don’t understand why you’re so upset about a bug.” Rich says, his voice getting higher as I glare. I almost sense panic in him. I wonder if he feels it coming from me. “But I’m tired and I need to go to bed, so you should go.”

“Oh, yeah, I need to leave. No Hard feelings (ha, except this giant one in my pants). I respect your right to kill animals.”

He walks toward the door shaking his head. He looks embarrassed. I can tell he knows this has nothing to do with a bug and everything to do with his man hands on my undeserving kneecap.

It's really over. He doesn't know how in love with him I am. For that, I win. I will never have a chance with him, and for a moment I might have. For that, I lost. He’s not laughing. This is a first.

“Happy Birthday, again.” He says, sort of shaking his head in disbelief and smiling with a kind of forced politeness. That's the Michigan in him.

I could have probably had it, I think, the hottest guy in the world, who is totally straight, and handy with woodwork. He would have loved me for the fat way I am as all straight guys do, right? I mean, I see them with their gigantic wives at the fair.

"So stupid, Sean," I think as I devour a custard filled chocolate doughnut and a mini carton of whole milk at the Winchell’s in Glendale just before I get home. It's my third doughnut. The first two were jelly-filled.

I start to feel sick from all the dairy curdling in my digestive closet. I look around, I become numb after the two final thought that clear my palette:

Number one, I never had a chance anyway, and second, who wants to have gay sex with a pro-lifer, anyways?