psychology & bruno
As I approach the start of my forty-first year on earth - the horror! The Horror!- I find myself becoming more and more like the ubiquitous Mrs Ritchie.
No, I don’t mean I’ve taken to wearing flesh-coloured Playtex Girdles as fashion items - although I do posses a rather Isherwood’s Berlin gentlemen’s corset, which I wear when I have a bad back. Or when the occassion demands. You know: Star Trek conventions, Fetish Parties (is there a difference?) “Don’t Tell Mama” night at the new local pub the Dog ‘n’ Reposession. Tescos.
Nor do I mean I’ve taken to kidnapping adopting children from third world nations: Not after I paid Shannon’s mum the fifty quid and 400 Marlboro “adoption fee,” only to have her stash the bratchild under a divan and leave me voicemail messages saying something in a hideous Northern dialect about the kid “Doin’ a runner, chuck,” before muttering something about barm cakes and screeching to her remaining “bairns” to “Leave t’ fookin’ dog alone!” And hanging up.
No, no more shall Mrs Ritchie and I be in competition for cute infants or foundation garments.
We do, however, have one thing in common:
A desire to keep the encroaching years at bay through diet - macrobiotic in her case, Organic Taramasalata in mine - and exercise.
And we both employ personal trainers to help us with our physical needs (no, not those physical needs. People who help with those needs are called hookers.)
The personal trainer responsible for sculpting my physique so that I can achieve my dream of dancing shirtless on a dancefloor on my fortieth birthday is a short, squat South African rugby player named Bruno.
Bruno is funny, smart, straight, very gay friendly, and utterly ruthless when it comes to getting the last three reps out of me. Once this week, he’s had me on the verge of tears, every fibre of my being telling me ‘Enough,’ and only the knowledge that he’s standing there alternately bullying and cheerleading pushing me on.
Tonight, I admitted that I almost didn’t hire him as a trainer. “There was another guy,” I admitted, “Who I thought long and hard about hiring. He works out of this gym, but I haven’t seen him around for a while.”
“Let me guess,” Bruno said, helping me lift a 40Kilo barbell behind my head for the dreaded shoulder presses, “Tom.”
I gasped, losing my balance slightly. “How could you know?” Tom, who never wore anything more than a wife beater and a pair of shorts, whose Deltoids were bigger than my head, and whose calf muscles kept me in furious ‘adjustment’ for weeks. On second thoughts, how could he not know?
“So why’d you pick me,” he pressed, standing away and motioning for me to begin the agonising effort of lifting the bar whilst keeping back and core straight, and trying not to topple over.
I wanted to be verbose and clear in my reasons for rejecting the God-Like Tom, and going instead with the ultimately brilliant Bruno. To explain the psychological reasoning, without offending him. But I was on my third rep, and already I was asking myself why I didn’t just have implants and lipo and save myelf the agony.
So instead, “Didn’t fancy you,” I grunted. “Thought I’d get more work done,” I strained, “Less gawping.”
End of.
So, set over, I ask Bruno what Tom’s up to these days.
“Oh mate, he’s stopped training people. Quit the profession. Became a chartered surveyor.” The last two words said in the tone most people adopt for Paedophile’s assistant.
“What about you?” I ask, “You ever want to jack it in? Become a surveyor?”
“Nah, mate. I got no interest in surveying anyones house. I’m studying again,” (he’s already got a degree in Sports nutrition), “Gonna get my degree in psychology and become a therapist.”
And suddenly I’m reminded that one can always be surprised by people: here’s Bruno - short, wide, weighty Bruno the Rugby player (maybe he is a hooker after all) who, with me, is so often all about pushing, grinding down, making me do what I don’t always want to do; and he wants to work as a therapist. To help people.
Another side to the beast.
“Sports psychology?” I ask, lifting the bar to begin the second set.
“Nah. Fuck That! I wanna work wiv Nutters, mate. really fuck ‘em up. That’s one…”
Quite.
I keep lifting…