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I have written about my YMCA adventures several times in this space, and today provided me an entirely new experience I will dub “Adventures in Conversation.” Today’s linguistic odyssey steered me to entirely new inappropriate frontiers.
I went to the YMCA earlier than usual. Experienced Y-goers know that such an action invites trouble—going off routine brings you into orbit with an entirely different set of humans, much in the same way, for example, you would encounter different species of wildlife during the night than during the day. As a reminder, there still remains one constant when it comes to YMCA males: nudity. This is known as “Planck’s constant in the workout space.” (Plancks! Get it?)
Things started uneventful. I drove through the light rain, checked in, and did cardio work on the elliptical machine; my playlists are getting a bit musty. Then I went to the locker room to prepare for reentry into the world.
Directly next to my locker was, of course, a fully nude man on a stool doing his best impersonation of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” Public Service Announcement: NEVER touch the stools at the YMCA unless you are wearing at least three bio-tested layers. As I began the dialing back and forth still required by lock technology, The Thinker decided to begin a conversation with me in the following fashion:
“How did you get off work today? I’m on workman’s comp, but you’re definitely too young to be retired, so how did you get out of work and what are you doing here?”
Full disclosure: I am hardwired to initially respond to such provocations in basic code:
10 Print “What the heck is wrong with you?”
20 GOTO 10
Yes, The Thinker is indeed Mr. Taxpayer, and he needed to know how I scammed away from my 9 to 5 without a permission slip. This is, in my experience, not a good way to begin conversations with strangers—it’s akin to saying, “May I see your papers, please” in a way that the question is not really a question.
I looked down at the fully-naked, tax-paying thinker in disbelief, wondering why he made no effort to get dressed (I believe the YMCA hires 25 fully-nude men to be on site 25 hours a day, just for continuity), and ran through the following possible responses in my head:
“I have Ebola.”
“I am a billionaire.”
“I work for the federal government investigating fraudulent workman’s comp claims, like where people receiving workman’s comp go to the YMCA and workout vigorously enough to have to remove all their clothing when finished.”
“I am a stay-at-home parent who doesn’t need to be home at the moment.”
“I am in the metaverse.”
“Are you Sarah Connor?”
“I am a paying member of this establishment, and thus allowed to walk in the door.”
“I am an undocumented worker from Scotland.”
The problem with the above options is that, first, I struggle with lying and, second, I generally don’t engage negatively with people even if they deserve it. So I had no option but to tell him the truth: “I’m on sabbatical, which is something that anyone named Mr. Taxpayer loves and enthusiastically supports. Would you like to hear about my many projects?”
Those were not my exact words, but I did use the word “sabbatical,” which led him to say, “Is that some kind of injury?” Honestly, this is a valid question. My projects could be going nowhere. I could be on “Black Sabbatical,” where I am writing a monograph on heavy metal songs. I could be masquerading as The Declining Academic on Substack.
When I tried to explain that I was doing research, prepping to resume prison education, while also working on a book manuscript that is already two books in length, his naked eyes glazed over and he said, “Well, you meet all kinds of people here.” Why yes. Yes you do.
Since I had passed muster, he felt compelled to justify his presence at the YMCA by detailing his injury, which involved a torn muscle in his arm. Even though he was fully nude and I was heavily focused on eye contact, I could not verify if the muscle was indeed torn. Honestly, I didn’t really need to “see his papers,” but maybe I just project authority.
Trying to be an amicable layabout, I asked him, “What do you do?” He responded, “I drive around various parking lots and do site checks.” Oh really. Was this my moment to turn the screw? I believe so. The following responses blazed through my mind:
“Have you heard that people sometimes drive with one hand?”
“Did you know the new space cars can drive themselves? I think it’s called autonomous driving, as opposed to stickonomous driving.”
“I know it’s really hard to get back into 10 and 2 shape. Stick with it. I believe in you.”
“Excuse me a moment while I call the claims office.”
“We are the San-Ti. You are a bug. All your base belong to us.”
I said none of these things because that would be—as was the start of this interaction—obnoxious. By that point I had fully outdressed him, winning by a score of Fully Dressed to Still Completely Naked. I said, “Have a nice day” and exited, looking for a random workplace I could return to and feel useful again.
So I say to you all, there are definitely ways that we should not begin conversations with each other. As this adventure contains two lists already, I will add a third, as three is the magic number.
Other ways to not begin conversations with strangers:
“This country’s going to hell, isn’t it? I’ll tell you.”
“Kids these days and all their participation prizes! No attention span!”
“Who are you to tell me I shouldn’t get measles. Maybe I want them.”
“You ever watch movies about gladiators?”
“Well, she/he is pretty damn cute, huh?” (The first words the greeter at my healthcare facility said to me the other day. True story. Not, “Can I help you find something?” Just “She was pretty damn cute, huh?” And then he walked away.)
Thanks for listening.