The Archivers

Our Tough Mudder team name is the Archivers. At first read, it’s rather confusing. What does an archiver have anything to do with a group of idiots planning to meet a fate worse than death on a mountain that is 8,000 feet in elevation? Is “archiver” even a word? According to Wikipedia, a sound and trustworthy source of information on the Internet, a “file archiver” is a computer program that combines a number of files together into one archive file. According to Webster’s, there’s no such word. Archive, yes. But Archivers?

Many brave souls on our team are accepting this identity in blind faith; most have never even asked where that name came from or who came up with it. Most are probably more preoccupied about whether they will make it through the “Ball Shrinker” obstacle course, which entails traversing across a river in waste deep ice water while holding on to a rope. They have little time to ponder the origins of such a… well, stupid team name.

The Archivers originated circa 2000 when I was fortunate enough to win a fitness magazine contest where I was shipped to a fat farm in Utah for a week to endure the pain of eating flax seed pancakes and performing circus routines which are now commonly known as Pilates. They picked me because I penned a sob story about my club foot (true, I have one), my horrible eating habits (kind of true) and the fact that I run, but have never lifted a weight or taken a yoga class in my life (not true).

I didn’t consume alcohol during the entire week at the fat farm – complete torture on its own – and learned to eat slowly and breathe deeply. I came home refreshed and five pounds lighter. At the time I was dating an ER resident who picked me up at the airport upon my return. Said boyfriend had no interest in listening to my enlightened sense of self, but his father did, who was also in the car.

So, the boyfriend's father, “Bob” and I headed back to our house for a little wine and debriefing while tired and overworked and uninterested boyfriend headed back home for “an early shift” at the hospital.

My roommate at the time joined in the conversation and the three of us talked about my magazine trip and how inspired I was upon my return. The conversation turned to our goals and dreams for the coming year. We put together an implementation plan and found that our fate was sealed. Bob wanted to learn to stain glass. Litha wanted to take a pottery class. I wanted to keep up with my new way of eating and also learn to be nicer to people.

I suggested that we meet once a month to check in on how we are doing with our goals and came up with a name, just to inspire ourselves. We were to offer constructive feedback, assistance and encouragement.”

I also suggested naming our group the Willow Tree. In the material that I brought home from the hippie fat farm, there was an old Chinese story about how a Willow tree that does not bend in the wind, will not last in the storm. I don’t remember where it originated, but it sounded good at the time.

We finalized our next meeting and departed for the evening.

The next day I received the following email from Bob:

Amy – I am very excited about our motivational group. We should expand it to others. I have to say, I don’t like our name. It sounds too girly, and as you know, I am not a girl. How about the Archivers?

Bob.

I read the email twice, not really understanding what he meant so I called him and asked for an explanation, as I didn’t really agree with his assessment of the term Willow Tree and what the new team name meant.

“What do you mean, Achievers seems to be a perfect name. We are attempting to ‘achieve’ our goals.”

Bob should have added “improve spelling” to his goal list.

I forwarded the email to as many people as I know as making fun of people’s mistakes and shortcomings is a satanic pastime of mine. I incorporated an epilogue to detail intent, and background.

After reading my email, my buddy Vince, the crazed friend who got us involved in the Tough Mudders race and (still) friends with my ex, facilitated a meeting of the Archivers immediately. It was held at a brewpub. I was the self proclaimed President. We were to grade the difficulty of our goals and progress.

After two meetings, I was overturned in what could only be described as a secret coup. Apparently, I was “too hard” on my fellow Archivers, using terms like “lethargic” and “lame” to describe reasons behind the F’s I gave across the board. For example, Vince’s goal was to learn to swing dance before our next meeting – a laudable goal in my opinion. He not only neglected to practice one time, he didn’t even take the “How to Swing in Five Easy Steps” video tape out of its plastic cover. His fellow Archivers gave him an A for effort for actually buying the video. This was a clear illustration of what is wrong with Generation X – pure laziness is rewarded.

After I was overthrown as President, a new “softer” President was elected. She happened to be my old roommate who helped to originate the group back in the day. This seemed like an appropriate replacement for a couple of reasons: first, she had the institutional knowledge of the origins of the group, and secondly, she was so soft on effort and didn’t want to offend anyone, that it appeared as though people ceased to feel pressure. Note: an Archivers meeting has yet to be convened since my departure. That was 7 years ago.

So here we are, the Archivers back in action attempting the feat of our lifetime. I imagine that if history is the dictator of our success, we will likely form a group of pathetic quitters at mile point five, and archive ourselves in the “first team to need an oxygen mask” or “Most frequenters of the First Aid stations” categories.

The Counterintuitive Advantages to Hurting Myself

I was strolling down the street heading back to my office after running a few errands on a regular workday when I was stopped by two acquaintances, two separate times who happened to compliment me on my hair. One even went so far as to say, “what are you doing differently? It looks so healthy.” Now, normally I wouldn’t blog about something so superficial and vain, (yes I would), but I thought it a bit satirical as to why my hair was so “different” lately.

Had I garnered the nerve, this is the way I would have answered that woman’s question:

“Oh, this bouncy tress (hair toss, giggle). Well, lean in because this here is a beauty secret that landed in my lap about two months ago. I plan to market it somehow and make millions, so keep it between the two of us for now, okay? (hand on woman’s shoulder, wink).

“You see, I go to this gym called Midtown Strength and Conditioning right there off of T and 3rd Street. You could walk from here but I drive. I go to their “Puking is Okay, Quitting is Not” noon class. It’s an hour and it involves a whole host of exercises that muscles you never knew you had start screaming profanities at you. (begin to whisper, make eye contact with said woman).

“By the time the hour is up, I am usually late for a meeting or a fundraiser or some conference call, so even though Midtown has showers, I figure that a little baby powder, water splashed on the face and a towel will suit me just fine. I then head for my car with crackberry in hand, and I know that I have a handful of “crisis” emails from my staff who I have left in a lurch because the workout always comes first these days. (making my hair the focus, I give it one more toss).

“When I get in my car, I blast the air conditioning to the highest level, which is number four in my Ford Escape 2005, and I tilt the air vents so they are aimed at my face and hair. And I sit there for a minute, responding to the email crises as I tap tap away at the crackberry. Then, I tilt the rearview mirror so my reflection is looking back at me and I fix the blurred eyeliner, the sagging mascara, add a little lipstick.”

“And here’s the big secret (now the woman and I would be nose to nose): I begin styling my hair with my hands – it’s like I have built in hair gel so it will pretty much stay in the shape that my hands demand. It’s like art. I become a sculptor. Obviously, today I chose the wind swept look, but tomorrow I might go for the slicked back sides. And perhaps next week, I may do a little 80’s action and poof up the bangs. You never know, but it doesn’t matter, because I can do anything with this mop under those circumstances. Anything.”

I will then wait to see if the woman has any other questions regarding my beauty tip. Likely not. I imagine she would do an about face and run away from me as fast as she can for obvious reasons. And I would probably regret ever having told this woman about my beauty secret. But I am on to something here. I know an entrepreneurial opportunity when I see one.

Don’t be too surprised when you see my product on shelves in hair salons across the country.

Where's the Air?

I may be smiling on the outside, but I am crumbling with fear on the inside. Last weekend, the brood and I decided to scope out the terrain and the course of the dreaded Tough Mudder run. This turned out to be a very bad idea. It sounded good at the time, though.

We had two friends up at our cabin for a little hiking, a lot of food and some libations. During our wine soaked discussion on Saturday night, our committed friends decided that they were going to come up to the mountain that weekend and help cheer us on, and assist with watching Yack as he would surely want to follow his parents through the mud and tunnel courses. Being two, this race would probably appear to him to be nothing but preschool on crack. We needed some dedicated souls to hold him back as mommy and daddy plunged into oblivion.

Since our cabin is exactly 18 miles from the ski resort, (or death march as it were), we decided to hike it the next day. Having downed a couple of bottles of wine between us, it sounded like a good idea at the time, but when we woke up, it was the last thing we wanted to do.

The base of the mountain is at about 7,000 feet. Simply getting out of the car gave me a nose bleed. I realized at this moment as I struggled to pick Yack up out of the car seat that this was going to be ugly. And as of that moment, I had 42 days to psyche myself up for the hell that will become my reality.

As I hoisted my little man into his backpack (this child’s back breaker is typically made for a 2 year old who doesn’t weigh 100 pounds), I peered up into the sun and atop the mountain where heaven was shining brightly whispering to me, “return to the car and get the heck out of dodge”. Alas, I have been known to ignore the whispers from Heaven.

Our group approached the base of the mountain and noticed that the Tough Mudder staff had already begun assembling the various torture contraptions throughout the course. There were several narrow PVC pipes – likely for sewer lines – that were lying together side by side. My guess on width would be about 2 and a half feet wide which would be an overstatement. I put Yack down and climbed through, just to see. Just to test the waters. As I army crawled my way through the tube and over the pipe’s divots (ouch, they hurt my forearms, not to mention my knees, shins, and tops of my toes), I began to feel a sense of claustrophobia. Crawling backwards would prove my weakness. I put my head down, closed my eyes and crawled to the light.

Yack was right behind me, making a mockery of my Achilles heal. “Mommy, that was fun. Let’s do it again.”

No thanks. I’ll wait until there are 50 people behind me with mud caked on to their bodies, yelling at me to go faster.

Next, we decided to climb to the top of the mountain as we followed the map we pulled off the Internet. According to the description, we were supposed to be running up the mountain. I, however, walked. Let me rephrase. I stumbled, digging at any hole or sturdy terrain that I could find with my climbing boots to reach the top. (According to the Tough Mudder preparation manual, one should wear tennis shoes). I had to stop about five times to catch my breath and curse the clouds above for more air. I figured we were now at about 8,000 feet – not enough air in the world to help my dizzying state of affairs.

Reaching to the top was euphoric until Pants showed me the map. “During the race, we have to crawl up that face,” pointing to a mountain that looked to be at a 90 degree angle from where I was standing, “and we have to do that four times. The last time includes us carrying a tree log on our shoulder.”

That’s when the air left my head, my heart, my lungs and my feet. The air was on to something. The air was right. “Get out now!”

As we plunged down the side of the mountain back to our car, my thighs, knees and lower half of my body screamed in pain. My dear friends giggled in delight as they knew what we were headed for – watching me panic is something that brings them pure joy. What great friends.

And to make matters all the better, as we put Yack back into the car and headed for the brewery for a nice liquid lunch, Pants proclaimed in earnest, “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A Straight Up Bad Decision Leads to More Bad Decisions

I am back in action, as it were. Work has become a little less hectic and in turn, my new little mission is taking over my life. Let me be clear about something: my number one priority is my family, but because of my overly efficient and controlling ways, my sweet family members are running on autopilot. (Thank sweet Jesus for Jack’s preschool and Pant’s willingness to join me in this physically daunting crusade). I now have time to abandon all other duties and put myself through physical and mental torture in a weak attempt to survive the feat that is Tough Mudder. I have come to the pathetic conclusion that the only reason why I have committed myself to this task is due to the pride factor plain and simple. My ego is too big to back down.

I began working out at a new gym about five weeks before I actually signed up for the Tough Mudder event – set for October 9th. It was early August and I was panicking about verbally committing to compete, but not physically committing to survive. I was complaining to a friend about my utter stupidity when she suggested I try the torture chamber that is Midtown Strength and Conditioning. I had only heard of it a few times -once during a rubdown from my sweet masseur (“you know, if you just use a kettle ball every once in awhile, this shoulder knot will disappear, in fact, I belong to this gym where you push tractor tires down a long path”). Not quite the relaxing massage I had paid for – the workout sounded dreadful. The second time this gym was brought up was by a friend who said that she attends the 6 a.m. morning anguish class where they throw sandbags and do Russian twists with medicine balls. No thanks.

Once something is brought up twice by two different people who don’t know each other, it’s destiny. I had to join. So when this friend, sick of listening to me complain, said that joining this gym is the only chance that I had of surviving the race, I arrived, checkbook in hand that very same day.

To describe that I was intimidated would be a huge understatement. Try petrified. I heard the gym before I walked in the front door. Grunts, yells and huffs were heard through the rollup garage door before I entered. I hadn’t heard sounds like this since.. well, let’s move on.

The place smells of metal and steal and sweat. It’s wrought with gymnastic rings, sandbags, kettleballs, football sleds and a hell of a lot of jump ropes, which I hate with a passion. It’s also crammed with burly men, and some kick ass women. I tiptoed in, looking for the manager.

“You must be Amy. We have been waiting for you.” A message from God, or Goddess in this case. Her name was Tara. Her smile was inviting. My fear dissipated but only a little. I explained what I was doing there. She knew the story. Jeez, this town of 400,000 people is sure small.

“Tough Mudders’, huh? Well go change, we have work to do.”

I was immediately relieved to know that a woman would be training me. Who else knows my body but a woman, and maybe my husband but that’s not appropriate blogging etiquette. I changed into my spin bike outfit – so not conducive to what I was about to do – and was greeted by a muscle of a man named Camilo. Wait, where’s Tara? Apparently, she ran the morning classes and tricked me with her sweet inviting ways.

Camilo was on me in seconds, even before I headed for the door. Just as we started our routine, my buddy Vince joined us. I use the term buddy lightly because he is the one who got me into this blasted race in the first place. I was happy to have misery join me in what would undoubtedly be the most painful experience of recent history. The following is our first day’s workout. (It has since increased in reps, weight and pain as I hit week #6):

Scrawled across the dry erase board at the mechanics garage turned torture chamber:

Tough Mudders Do Three Sets of Each:
Russian Twists – 20x
Jump rope – 100x
Burpees – 20x (for those who don’t know what these are, ask a retired high school football player)
Mountain climbers – 30x
S Street Run – this is where you run, not jog, two blocks down the street
Alligators – this is where you hold ten pound dumb bells in your hands in the push up position while your toes are in the curves of a twelve pound plate. You must drag the plate while moving your weights across the floor. These are the epitome of hell.

Don’t forget to rest for 30 seconds in between reps.

When Camilo is feeling nice, he will have us also do dead lifts, pull ups with rubber bands, and sled pushes with 50 pound weights on them. What a sweet guy.

I started off going to this gym twice a week. I now go four. You must be wondering what I look like after working out like I am competing in a body building championship. I am about to tell you: I have gained six pounds – yeah yeah yeah, muscle weighs more than fat. Put a cork in it. I eat twice as much. That’s why I have gained weight.

And, as icing on that delicious cake, my mother told me this weekend that if my arms get any bigger, she is going to start getting the hots for me because I will cease to look like the woman that I am and cross over into dude land.

Am I Tough Enough? Um, that would be a no.

I must be out of my every lovin’ moyind.. oops, I meant to type “mind” but my arms resemble cooked spaghetti. I can’t even lift my finger to scratch my nose which itches from the caked dried sweat. I’ll just leave it until someone starts to stare. I will then ask for help. Perhaps a wet warm tissue please?

I have reluctantly agreed to participate in a male dominated chest pounding macho-fest in the mountains. The event is scheduled for 78 days, 15 hours and 32 minutes from now, but it could be 1,078 days and I can admit right here and now that I still wouldn’t be “ready”.

Apparently, “ready” means being of sound mind and body to run through fire, climb over a bus, wade through waste deep shivering cold mud all at a lung exploding altitude - 8,000 feet.

I combed through the pictures and descriptions of what is aptly called The Rough Mudders event (not a race, they don’t keep time that’s probably because most sane people don’t finish), and a overwhelming sense of anxiety washes upon me. That’s because I know in my gut this is not a good activity in which I should engage.

I turned the ripe old age of 38 last May. For those math wizards, that’s two years shy of the biggie. And when I parooze the pics of said Rough Mudder participants, I hardly fit the demographic: mid to late 20 something men, likely single with muscles atop of more muscles. Sure, there are a smattering of women who participate, but those women belong on stage of the Body Builder USA competition, something my body (and mind) never aspired to do.

So here I sit, after my first hard workout (well, hard for my standards) thinking is it really worth it just to say I did it? Just to have bragging rights over those too smart to join in this rugged mud slurping sausage fest?

But something within me (call it foolish pride) just can’t say no. When this little project presented itself through an impulsive and irrational friend, it looked like a fun challenge. What appealed to me the most was the team environment. I envisioned my band of brothers and sisters hoisting me over the 8 foot scaling wall or pushing me through the mud filled tubes as I army crawl my way to sunlight. It gives me tingles, really, to know that we will suffer through the throws of hell and come out singing and dancing and having a celebratory beer together.

The course is only 7 miles. I use the term “only” very loosely here because I probably couldn’t run 7 miles on a backroad in Kansas right now. I use “only” because that appears to be the less daunting part of the event. It’s set up at the Bear Valley ski resort. I have season passes up there so I am pretty familiar with the gnarly downhills.. which translate to uphills in this race. Along the 7 mile course (it’s assumed that participants will run the entire route), there are 17 obstacle courses that were developed by British Special Forces and I am not kidding about that. As far as I can tell by the website (and I stopped looking after my stomach started to turn) there are swamp swims, river crossings, army crawls into and under really scary things, and yes, there’s a fire run too.

Here’s what the website says to do in order to be ready:
A general tip
We suggest starting off each day taking cold, freezing showers to prepare for the icy water and mud you’ll have to wade through from start to glorious finish.
After your shower, look at yourself in the mirror. Punch yourself in the mouth. This works on two levels: the first is that you get used to pain.

Nutrition: What you put in your body has a direct effect on how you preform on May 2nd – mentally and physically. We recommend a meal of raw baby cow, preferably one you found and wrassled yourself (for city dwellers, any form of rodent, bird, or next door neighbor will do.) For dessert, snort two lines of protein powder and call it a day.

To replicate the burning conditions of our ring of fire, cover the inside of your pants with cayenne pepper for a 5k run through the park.
Alternate: Put tigerbalm in your eyes. Stare at the sun.

Strap some steaks to your legs and take a run through Michael Vick’s dogpound.
Alternate: Strap some pill bottles to your legs and take a run through Lindsay Lohan’s house.

We also recommend wearing a hat with a swim cap underneath and a pair of tough, thick gloves to prevent any burns from the ropes obstacles and splinters from any walls.

After reading these suggestions for training, I almost fainted from fear. This has got to be the dumbest thing I have decided to do in my life.

In the meantime, I must start getting serious about training. Today was a good start but I have to put it on hold for a while as I am headed out the door to Las Vegas to compete in the World Championship Beer Pong Tournament. I do have my priorities, afterall.

The Man On the Street

I happened to be occupying a middle seat on a Southwest flight from Orange County back to Sacramento about two years ago. I was pissed because I didn’t have any reading material. My work files were tucked away in the overhead bin – likely a subconscious move in order to completely avoid whatever assignment awaited me after my work trip. My book version of a chick flick was abandoned on top of my comforter at home. I could envision it, sitting there, spread open so far that the spine was stretched to its max crying for me to come home.

To boot, I was sitting next to a snorer to my left and a loud iPod player to my right. I couldn’t recognize the thumping base. Probably not in my musical repertoire or I might have enjoyed having it blasted in my inner ear.

I tried unsuccessfully to catch a quick nap. I was on this rare occasion bored out of my mind.

I picked up the reading material that was stuffed into the pocket in the seat in front of me. I had no interest in breezing the airline shopping mall for nose hair pickers and six foot garden gnomes, so I put the magazine back.

And then my world shifted, just a little.

I picked up the Southwest’s rather mundane knockoff of Esquire and began scanning its contents –Vegas is lovely in the summer if you stay indoors; Willie Nelson is On The Road Again; the SWA President’s message – thank you for your business. But the article that completely captured my attention was one about Greg Packer, a resident of New York and native of Long Island.

I read and reread the article, soaking in all that this guy had accomplished to eventually come to be known as the most quoted man in America.

After graduating high school in 1983, Greg Packer eventually earned a living as a highway maintenance worker in Huntington, NY. He retired and began a very successful outlet of reaching out to the masses and being quoted in several hundred news outlets throughout the U.S. not as a reporter, but a regular guy on the street. How does he do it? By standing in line.

Greg has done it all. Google his name and there are an overwhelmingly number of hits of him at certain high profile events, offering sound bites to reporters that invariably get in the press.

Take the time he stood in line for 110 hours before the iPhone went on sale, becoming the first to not only purchase the devise but be filmed and photographed walking in to the store. His efforts don’t stop there, in fact, he has been quoted or photographed at least 16 separate times by the Associated Press, 14 times by Newsday, 13 times by the New York Daily News, and 12 times by the New York Post, according to Wikipedia. He has had the opportunity to meet people including Madonna, Hilary Clinton Mariah Carey, Garth Brooks, Dennis Rodman, and Ringo Starr, as well as at least three presidents of the United States: Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush. Most of these people recognize him and know his name. He has been quoted on his reaction to military strikes against Iraq, the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the opening of the new Star Wars movie and at countless Yankees, Mets and Jets games.

He was also the first to sign Princess Di’s condolence book and the first to be scolded and called out by Anne Coulter as being a shill for the lazy media, “It was easy for the Times to spell Packer's name right because he is apparently the entire media's designated "man on the street" for all articles ever written.”

At the time I read this article, I was writing for the temporarily dormant magazine, California Conversations and decided to interview Greg. I was fascinated with his methods, the way he seeks out these events, his consistently quotable quotes.

I found Greg’s contact info – it wasn’t hard, and reached out to him with my request. He not only jumped at the chance to be interviewed, he suggested a trip to California so I could see this gig really worked – in the flesh. Now some may question the safety of connecting with a perfect stranger, but all potential fear dissipated with my first phone call with Greg.

His thick New Yawk accent captivated me during our first conversation. I began speaking like him right away, for even today I attempt to “talk East Coast” when I want to make a point while sounding tough and friendly at the same time. Our conversation went as follows:

GP: “Hey, Brown’a, how’s the left coast treatin’ ya?”

Me: “Yo, Packa, how’s it hangin’ out there in the lost coast?”

Our banter became almost instant, but so did our friendship. We began planning our trip to seek out Jesse Ventura’s book signing in LA. I started checking flights.

But then the sweet, successful magazine didn’t have the staff at that particular moment to ramp up another edition, so here I sit, itching to write about the (mis)adventures of Greg Packer.

In the meantime, Greg and I still keep in touch. He sends me a Mother’s Day card every year. Very sweet. I have even seen him on TV on two occasions – one time during the Today show as I got ready for work. It was Friday and the network was having a concert in the park – the New Kids on the Block. In the sea of middle aged moms, there stood Greg, holding a bright yellow umbrella in the rain, waving to the camera. I thought I might be seeing things so I rewound the program and paused it. Unmistakable. I called him. His voice mail box was full.

Another time, I was watching a program about Steve Jobs and the crazed outpour of the iPhone. Sure as day, there was Greg Packer being interviewed walking into the Apple store, albeit a little unkept, sunburned. Cameras were flashing from all different directions. It was then I realized that Greg is more of a celebrity than those he seeks out.

I follow Greg on Facebook and keep up on his daily statuses which are laden with sports and celebrity events updates. In fact, Tuesday’s status update was the following:
GOT TO SEE QUEEN ELIZABETH THE 2ND TODAY STANDING AT #10 HANDOVER SQUARE IN NYC IN SPITE OF THE RECORD 102 DEGREE HEAT,AN EXPERIENCE THAT I WILL NEVER EVER FORGET!!!!

I will someday get my chance to spend what will undoubtedly be a most memorable occasion with Greg Packer, and I will live proudly to write about it.

Until then, I will have to settle on those updates from the man that continues to put a smile on my face:

NATHANS HOT DOG EATING CONTEST LIVE FROM CONEY ISLAND 12NOON ON ESPN FOLLOWED BY MACY'S FIREWORKS ON NBC.HAPPY 4TH OF JULY EVERYBODY!! MAY GOD BLESS AMERICA ON IT'S BIRTHDAY AND MAY GOD BLESS AMERICA AND CANADA TOO.LET ALL CANADIANS JOIN OUR PARTY!!!

Finally A Little Perspective

I have had some really crappy jobs in my lifetime. I remember one summer I had a job as a seating attendant at the horse races, which on the surface seemed like a fine way to make some quick cash, but it was so degrading and laced with sexism, that I was fired after two weeks.

Prior to my blunt kick to the curb, I learned in short order that the tips I received from those rich old guys would exponentially increase the more I bent over to wipe off the dusty seat with the rag that I hung from my back pocket of the jeans that I painted on. After they were seated, they would chat me up, ask me to grab them a drink from the bar, “and make it quick, sweetheart”. I learned to reel in the attention, to smile, graze their shoulder, as if my summer money depended on it. I was seventeen at the time and heard that old men thought that they had hit the jackpot if someone within that age range even pretended to be interested.

After three days on the job, I walked away with tips that amounted to 200 in cash and a winning ticket. I later cashed it in for $500. I never had so much cash in my possession in my life. I began to understand the allure of the other oldest profession.

The job allowed me to fine tune my ability to flirt with men as well as women. Old ladies in grandiose hats would accompany their husbands and eyeball me as if I were the devil. After a few trial runs, I learned quickly that paying more attention to the wives with similar affection – a few winks and slight hand to arm combat – my tips ended up being the same dollar for dollar.

I also made a lot of jokes. In between races, I would stand before the crowd and indulge my audience in a monologue about my dating life, my father’s strict ways or my brother’s nerdy behavior. Some laughed. Others wanted to get into my pants and thought that giving me center stage would be just the way to do it.

Then I was fired. Well, technically, I wasn’t outright fired. I was moved up into the nose bleed section where teenage boys would pinch my butt and throw pennies at my head when I showed them to their seat. That lasted three and a half days and then I quit.

My worst job was at a popular gym. At the time I was attending UC Santa Cruz. I was a personal trainer for the morning shift, which meant I was up and manning the front desk at five a.m. on weekends and on those days I didn’t have class until after 11. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time. College perpetuates and fosters the ability to continue to sleep in the way we did in high school, except not just on weekends.

I guess you could say I wasn’t thinking. To boot, I had a walking sexual harassment case for a boss. To his credit, he wasn’t totally responsible for his behavior – he was on steroids which, as gym lore dictated, made him extremely irritable and shrunk his testicles to the size of blueberries.

Two incidences worth mentioning: I was cleaning the gym equipment one morning and Mr. Steroids showed up unannounced. He usually slept in which meant that he grumbled something to me about logging people in properly as I was leaving my shift.. something that was truly manageable, until he “noticed” me.

On this morning, the heebies crept into me something fierce. “You know, Brown, you would be kinda hot if you did your hair and wore makeup.” I tried to downplay his inappropriate comment by replying that he should be aware that I attended UC Santa Cruz and that his suggested get up would be condoned.

“No, I’m serious. Let’s see you with your hair up.” His Jersey accent and curly mullet made me want to vomit in my mouth.

“No thank you.” And I grabbed my wad of hair out of his hand and began cleaning the mirror, horrified.

Mr. Steroid got the picture but he wasn’t happy with the rejection. In fact, after that he made my life at the gym a living hell. I was subject to write ups, delays in my checks, my friends who attended the gym (and paid) were harassed, and he told boys who would ask for my phone number that I was a lesbian and not to waste their time. He would whisper loud enough for me to hear, “She is a Banana Slug. She likes pussy.”

I should have quit then, but I liked the money. The beer money. So did my friends, so I stayed.

One day Mr. Steroid lost his mind and yelled at a 14 year old boy who was bench pressing. The kid was struggling to lift up about 120 pounds and asked for help. I was watching from my perch at the front desk trying to stay out of the way. Mr. Steroid yelled at the boy for a good 20 seconds before grabbing the bar and told him to get the eff out of his gym, that he didn’t allow wimps.

I should have quit then, but I liked the money. The beer money….

I had made a likely friend/ally during my time at the gym. We bonded over a common emotion – we both hated Mr. Steroid. She had dated him for a spell and told me how abusive he was. One time she told me that after they broke up, he forced himself on her while his pit pulls watched.

I asked, “So he raped you?”

Her response, “Well, since we had been together and since I went over to his house and drank too much, I wouldn’t necessarily call it rape.”

I wondered what she would call it then.

My new friend and I used most of my working hours to talk shit about Mr. Steroid. This was a brilliant set up in my opinion because I was getting paid by him to soil his reputation with her and others who would listen.

And then one day, my friend walked into the gym (don’t ask why she was still patronizing the gym if she feared for her life with this guy. I asked and didn’t get a straight answer, but I do believe the rape story. Mr. Steroid talked regularly about bringing girls back to his house and scaring them with Cujo and Killer). She hopped on the treadmill and began her cardio when Mr. Steroid approached her.

I watched from my perch.

They talked for awhile. She was seemingly uncomfortable. She finally pushed the off button on the treadmill and headed for the door. I perked up, watching every move.

Mr. Steroid followed her and as she was approaching the door, he grabbed her, pushed her to the wall and yelled in a rather Steroidish way, “these tits aren’t real.” And then he cupped them. She then began crying and ran out of the door.

That day I quit and three weeks later I was called by my friend’s attorney to be a witness in court.

I am thirty-eight. In retrospect, those are some pretty bad jobs. But they are only two. I have been working regularly since I was sixteen. I chalk those two bad jobs against several great ones to luck and success.

Without my education, I would probably still be in one of those windbag jobs, or worse. Thank you, parents, for giving me the opportunity and knowledge to get out of some bad situations. Thank you U.S. for affording me the ability to even know that there’s more out there.

In some places, my bad work experiences are norm, and that makes my heart sink.

I just finished a book that should be required reading for every woman in the world. It’s called Half the Sky and it’s life changing. If it isn’t, your empathy gene is non existent. The premise is set on women who have been violently beaten, verbally abused and oppressed all over the world – in Third World countries as well as ours – the good old USA. It covers the gamet – trafficking, genital mutilation, male only education, women as property to their spouses. Most, if not all of the examples in Half The Sky described women penniless, working for free, slaves in their own homes, or for some rich guy who wanted a prostitute and housecleaner. Sometimes these girls were as young as nine. Some were seventeen, like me at the horse races, wiping off seats with a rag. I never had to go home with any of them. I always got paid. I even got to quit. That’s freedom.

The book made me cry but then gave me hope. Upon finishing, I performed the quintessential cliché – I got online and spent $100 for a Nepalese girl to attend school for a year, which also earned her family a pig.

You could say that I am on a mission now. Call me a chestnut. Call me a poser. I don’t give a shit. What I have come to realize is perspective. What I have also come to realize is that if I sit back and do nothing in the name of Mr. Steroid or Mr. Richman horse race gambler or the woman who was sold into prostitution and became a mom at the age of twelve, I will be living in vain.

And that is the opposite of freedom in my book.