The first time I saw him getting ready, I thought it had to be joke. For all of his foibles and annoyance Mr. MMA has been married for well over a decade and is a father. These facts made it seem improbable that the nylon bag he walked into the gym with could be what I thought it was. Then he unzipped it. Sure enough, a pair of rollerblades. My boss, Mr. MMA, the man who strives for Zen and balance in all things is… a rollerblader.
Mr. MMA’s reason for doing such a thing to himself is that he has bad knees. That’s all well and good but there is a part of me that has to call bullshit. Dude, I have bad knees, which happens when you’ve jumped out of a plane with heavy stuff on like I have. You still won’t see me rollerblading, especially when he’s paid to have top of the line elliptical trainers put into the gym. They’re so good that in addition to a super smooth rolling action they have the cable input. You can watch TV as long as you’re moving. If I didn’t have to work I might never get off the damn thing in the morning. It’s really the only chance I have to watch Sportscenter. Now with it being live every morning, never mind- I digress. Back to our regularly scheduled bashing of my boss.
Rollerblading is something my mother does to work out. It’s what a gay friend of mine does if he thinks he “really likes a guy” for one of the first few dates. It is what you did back in the early 90’s if you wanted to look trendy, shit I don’t think they even have rollerblading in the X-games anymore. Yet you will still see Mr. MMA leave from the gym and take to the streets two or three times a week on the damn things.
This is getting to the point of me almost needing therapy. I get talked down to and bitched out by guy who thinks it’s socially acceptable to glide along the street on a set of brightly colored Salomon’s. The same dude that has created a running joke of wanting to wear a pink shirt “next time [he’s] out blading” to promote the gym with the other owners. Yeah, he's the same person nit picking how well I cleaned up the front desk before I left work the other day.
Homosexual friends of mine think what he’s doing is gay and I can do nothing but smile and take it for another 353 days till I fight him!?!?!
That day cannot get here soon enough.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Gym Cliche Pt1: Fake Boobs McGee (358 Days till I fight my boss)
Every gym has a Fake Boobs McGee. There's at least one of her in every gym.
You’ve stared at her- don’t pretend like you haven’t. Male, female, gay, or straight have stared or glared at the chick with the loud hair and "expanded" chest. Let’s just be honest, they’ve been pumped up so big you could use them as markers to land a spaceship. Low cut designer sports bra/shirt combo complimented by the short Nike running shorts or spandex booty shorts. She walks through the doors to the gym and things slow down. Depending on the outfit, things might come to a complete stop. Ladies are glaring death at her. Guys are wondering what the boob job looks like with the clothes off and just how firm they are.
If the ensemble weren’t enough the woman oozes “I wanna fuck.” Sometimes you’d think she’s infected the gym with it. The guy bench pressing a house ten minutes ago is suddenly asking her if she “needs a spot,” hoping he gets a chance to find out just how far down her shirt he can see. Most of the guys think they have a chance of scoring with her. All of them have thought about it at least once. The women in the gym talk all sorts of shit about her, while not to her face, definitely not in the hushed secretive tones they way they do about other members. Yet this particular patron of modern fitness seems to not care what the ladies are saying, and she basks in the attention of the men while staying at just enough distance to keep most of the guys on the hook. It’s just the way the woman is.
My version, according to her, was even a former escort. While the rest of you just get to wonder what she is like in bed or just how much of a slut she is, I see McGee in a drastically different light. I’m her $70 an hour borderline socially acceptable boy toy. Welcome to the life of a personal trainer, kids.
Fake Boobs McGee has made no secret of how “cute” she finds me or how “great” she thinks my ass is. I used to joke when people talked about guys being sexually harassed by women at work. Now I’m wondering just how bad Karma is going to catch up with me. I am now, more or less, the consort to the former escort for the duration of the time she is in my gym. A dash of resistance bands and abdominal exercises thrown in to make it socially acceptable.
There is so much irony in the situation that part of me wants to pull a Bruce Almighty screaming up at the sky “IS THIS MY LIFE! Seriously, this is what you have planned for me!?!?!” after I’m done working her out. Only to then walk upstairs in front of her, feeling like I’m a fucking strip steak about to be paid for at the supermarket check out.
It’s not that I have anything against McGee. In fact when no one is around and she finally turns off the sex kitten “I think just like a man when it comes to sex” act she’s a decent chick. It’s that she pays $210 a week to stare at my ass and try every trick on me her former johns played on her. It's that tri-weekly blow to my ego. Meanwhile, my need for said money and desire to not be put out on my ass keeps me as the prey, or at the very least the object of her infatuation. I used to literally hunt terrorist. Now a former escort’s slapping me on the ass when she has a craving for rump roast.
And yet, when it’s all said and done, she can- all by herself- pay my proverbial rent. So until I can punch out Mr. MMA’s lights, I hope she’s got a couple of friends. I still have a car payment, insurance, and food to pay for.
358 Days till I fight my Boss.
You’ve stared at her- don’t pretend like you haven’t. Male, female, gay, or straight have stared or glared at the chick with the loud hair and "expanded" chest. Let’s just be honest, they’ve been pumped up so big you could use them as markers to land a spaceship. Low cut designer sports bra/shirt combo complimented by the short Nike running shorts or spandex booty shorts. She walks through the doors to the gym and things slow down. Depending on the outfit, things might come to a complete stop. Ladies are glaring death at her. Guys are wondering what the boob job looks like with the clothes off and just how firm they are.
If the ensemble weren’t enough the woman oozes “I wanna fuck.” Sometimes you’d think she’s infected the gym with it. The guy bench pressing a house ten minutes ago is suddenly asking her if she “needs a spot,” hoping he gets a chance to find out just how far down her shirt he can see. Most of the guys think they have a chance of scoring with her. All of them have thought about it at least once. The women in the gym talk all sorts of shit about her, while not to her face, definitely not in the hushed secretive tones they way they do about other members. Yet this particular patron of modern fitness seems to not care what the ladies are saying, and she basks in the attention of the men while staying at just enough distance to keep most of the guys on the hook. It’s just the way the woman is.
My version, according to her, was even a former escort. While the rest of you just get to wonder what she is like in bed or just how much of a slut she is, I see McGee in a drastically different light. I’m her $70 an hour borderline socially acceptable boy toy. Welcome to the life of a personal trainer, kids.
Fake Boobs McGee has made no secret of how “cute” she finds me or how “great” she thinks my ass is. I used to joke when people talked about guys being sexually harassed by women at work. Now I’m wondering just how bad Karma is going to catch up with me. I am now, more or less, the consort to the former escort for the duration of the time she is in my gym. A dash of resistance bands and abdominal exercises thrown in to make it socially acceptable.
There is so much irony in the situation that part of me wants to pull a Bruce Almighty screaming up at the sky “IS THIS MY LIFE! Seriously, this is what you have planned for me!?!?!” after I’m done working her out. Only to then walk upstairs in front of her, feeling like I’m a fucking strip steak about to be paid for at the supermarket check out.
It’s not that I have anything against McGee. In fact when no one is around and she finally turns off the sex kitten “I think just like a man when it comes to sex” act she’s a decent chick. It’s that she pays $210 a week to stare at my ass and try every trick on me her former johns played on her. It's that tri-weekly blow to my ego. Meanwhile, my need for said money and desire to not be put out on my ass keeps me as the prey, or at the very least the object of her infatuation. I used to literally hunt terrorist. Now a former escort’s slapping me on the ass when she has a craving for rump roast.
And yet, when it’s all said and done, she can- all by herself- pay my proverbial rent. So until I can punch out Mr. MMA’s lights, I hope she’s got a couple of friends. I still have a car payment, insurance, and food to pay for.
358 Days till I fight my Boss.
Monday, September 22, 2008
How Mr. MMA Got His Nickname (361 days till I fight my boss)
In my eyes Mixed Martial Arts is the greatest sport in the world. Take two combatants, give them minimal padding with minimal rules and let them decide who is the best; using whatever martial art tactics they want. It’s simple, it’s captivating, and it’s primal. The few rules like the banning of groin strikes and regulating weight classes not only helped the sport in the eyes of the average John and Jane Q Public, but it also increased the longevity of the fighters and gave me my favorite thing to watch on the planet. As if that wasn’t enough, mixed martial artists are easily the greatest athletes on the planet. If I could only get my clients to train a tenth as hard as those men and women do. I'd have at least my own local fitness show, not to mention the hottest looking group of people in town.
I’m a complete Mixed Martial Arts junkie. Mr. MMA thinks that most Mixed Martial Artists have a “lack of honor” and views the sport as if it's all that is wrong with the world today.
Despite his reservations about the purity of purpose for your average mixed martial artist, for the price of standard lesson price of $200, he’ll be happy to share his knowledge with you to help you win your next fight. Mr. MMA has one taker for these lessons. This pupil of Mr. MMA has a fight coming up and after seeing this rather large individual walk through the door I suddenly had to know what Mr. MMA is teaching him. It was an itch I couldn't resist scratching.
Walking back into the mat area I arrived just in time to see Mr. MMA tie on his black belt and ask the student if he was ready. The lesson started with the traditional bow and assumption of your typical side karate/Tae Kwon Do/Kenpo/ (insert your point scoring art here) stance. From there, Mr. MMA proceeded to teach a straight kick. Mr. MMA admittedly looked pretty smooth as he executed it. I’m guessing multiple decades of practice would do that for you. His student, on the other hand, did not look so good. His kick looked like the one Anderson Silva caught before he pounded out James Irvin at the last UFC Fight Night. He was telegraphing the kick by grossly dropping his back shoulder before he even stepped in for the kick, trying to hit the shield Mr. MMA was holding at chest level as hard as he could. As it went on, his dip of the shoulder only got worse as the pupil tried harder and harder to load up the kick.
“Now remember, throw this with confidence. Like you mean it.” Mr. MMA was telling him. “He’s not going to see it coming until that leg is already coming up, and by that time it’s too late!” Mr. MMA spoke excitedly. He'd been getting progressively more and more excited as the lesson wore on.
“Hey dude,” I spoke up. “Be careful. You’re dropping that back shoulder noticeably as you load up. As high as you're kicking a good wrestler will be able to time his shot for a single and a good striker can close the distance to on you the way that shoulder is dropping.”
“It’s dropping that bad?” He asked me, clearly surprised I was saying something.
“Yeah man, it is,” I told him.
“Well don’t forget you're kicking for the ribs,” Mr. MMA said, pointing to a spot five or six inches lower than he’d been holding center mass of the shield.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. I thought. You are so full of shit, dude.
I had to step away from the lesson because when someone came in for a tour of the gym. I came back to the lesson twenty minutes later. Mr. MMA had moved on to a three-punch combo, ending in a rather slow developing hook. His pupil was moving through it pretty well and Mr. MMA was again excited.
“That’s it!” He shouted. “If you hit this, it’s done. The purpose of the fight is to end it as quickly as possible, right? To get in and out and on with your day? This will make that happen.”
I’d say the purpose is to win and prove you are the better man or woman in the cage that night. To show that you’re better, but hey what do I know? I thought, glaring at him. His tone let anyone within ear shot know in exactly how little esteem he held MMA.
“You do this, and it’s over. It’s over,” he continued on. “I’ve used this in tournaments against black belts and dominated them. This really, really works!”
Because, you know, a point sparring tournament is so much like stepping into an octagon shaped cage with nothing but a pair of 5oz gloves and a set of fight shorts on. You fucking moron.
“Ok, again!” Mr. MMA told his student. As he worked it through three or four more times I noticed that every time the student moved forward, Mr. MMA was always dropping his head and covering up.
Plume clinch Note for the non MMA/fight fan, it’s where you cup the back of your opponents head in your hands so you can unload you knees into his or her face. It’s beautiful when executed correctly- watch Anderson Silva v Rich Franklin I for a great example.
“Hey man,” I called out to them. “Can you use knees in your fight? I know you’re fighting amateur.”
“To the body, but not to the face,” he told me.
“See how Mr. MMA is ducking and dropping his head the way he is? That combo positions you perfectly for a plume clinch if the guy you’re fighting does the same thing. Watch for it, especially if you’ve backed him up into the cage.” I told him.
“Pff, the force you are going to generate on that punch, if he’s still standing after that, I want to train with him,” Mr. MMA said; turning to glare at me as he finished the sentence.
Ok dude, who are you? Mr. Fight Fucking Guru? Hasn’t the very name of the sport mixed martial arts dawned in you, you fucking moron? BJ Penn could take the punch, Rick Franklin did take it more than once in his two fights with Silva, holy hell Big Nog has made a living of taking punches like that only to come back and sub the shit out of people. The blow Fedor took when he got slammed and still came back to beat Fujitia... I continued to fume in my head, feeling the color in my face starting to rise. Ok Mr. MMA, I’m sure ‘no one can take that punch’… hey wait a minute, Mr. MMA… yeah dude that is your name until I leave this job. From here on out, you’re Mr. MMA.
With that I had a nickname for him. Two days later he would give me the speech that got all of this started.
And in 361 days, I'm going to strike a blow that so many out there only wish for. Only 361 days till I fight my fucking boss.
I’m a complete Mixed Martial Arts junkie. Mr. MMA thinks that most Mixed Martial Artists have a “lack of honor” and views the sport as if it's all that is wrong with the world today.
Despite his reservations about the purity of purpose for your average mixed martial artist, for the price of standard lesson price of $200, he’ll be happy to share his knowledge with you to help you win your next fight. Mr. MMA has one taker for these lessons. This pupil of Mr. MMA has a fight coming up and after seeing this rather large individual walk through the door I suddenly had to know what Mr. MMA is teaching him. It was an itch I couldn't resist scratching.
Walking back into the mat area I arrived just in time to see Mr. MMA tie on his black belt and ask the student if he was ready. The lesson started with the traditional bow and assumption of your typical side karate/Tae Kwon Do/Kenpo/ (insert your point scoring art here) stance. From there, Mr. MMA proceeded to teach a straight kick. Mr. MMA admittedly looked pretty smooth as he executed it. I’m guessing multiple decades of practice would do that for you. His student, on the other hand, did not look so good. His kick looked like the one Anderson Silva caught before he pounded out James Irvin at the last UFC Fight Night. He was telegraphing the kick by grossly dropping his back shoulder before he even stepped in for the kick, trying to hit the shield Mr. MMA was holding at chest level as hard as he could. As it went on, his dip of the shoulder only got worse as the pupil tried harder and harder to load up the kick.
“Now remember, throw this with confidence. Like you mean it.” Mr. MMA was telling him. “He’s not going to see it coming until that leg is already coming up, and by that time it’s too late!” Mr. MMA spoke excitedly. He'd been getting progressively more and more excited as the lesson wore on.
“Hey dude,” I spoke up. “Be careful. You’re dropping that back shoulder noticeably as you load up. As high as you're kicking a good wrestler will be able to time his shot for a single and a good striker can close the distance to on you the way that shoulder is dropping.”
“It’s dropping that bad?” He asked me, clearly surprised I was saying something.
“Yeah man, it is,” I told him.
“Well don’t forget you're kicking for the ribs,” Mr. MMA said, pointing to a spot five or six inches lower than he’d been holding center mass of the shield.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight. I thought. You are so full of shit, dude.
I had to step away from the lesson because when someone came in for a tour of the gym. I came back to the lesson twenty minutes later. Mr. MMA had moved on to a three-punch combo, ending in a rather slow developing hook. His pupil was moving through it pretty well and Mr. MMA was again excited.
“That’s it!” He shouted. “If you hit this, it’s done. The purpose of the fight is to end it as quickly as possible, right? To get in and out and on with your day? This will make that happen.”
I’d say the purpose is to win and prove you are the better man or woman in the cage that night. To show that you’re better, but hey what do I know? I thought, glaring at him. His tone let anyone within ear shot know in exactly how little esteem he held MMA.
“You do this, and it’s over. It’s over,” he continued on. “I’ve used this in tournaments against black belts and dominated them. This really, really works!”
Because, you know, a point sparring tournament is so much like stepping into an octagon shaped cage with nothing but a pair of 5oz gloves and a set of fight shorts on. You fucking moron.
“Ok, again!” Mr. MMA told his student. As he worked it through three or four more times I noticed that every time the student moved forward, Mr. MMA was always dropping his head and covering up.
Plume clinch Note for the non MMA/fight fan, it’s where you cup the back of your opponents head in your hands so you can unload you knees into his or her face. It’s beautiful when executed correctly- watch Anderson Silva v Rich Franklin I for a great example.
“Hey man,” I called out to them. “Can you use knees in your fight? I know you’re fighting amateur.”
“To the body, but not to the face,” he told me.
“See how Mr. MMA is ducking and dropping his head the way he is? That combo positions you perfectly for a plume clinch if the guy you’re fighting does the same thing. Watch for it, especially if you’ve backed him up into the cage.” I told him.
“Pff, the force you are going to generate on that punch, if he’s still standing after that, I want to train with him,” Mr. MMA said; turning to glare at me as he finished the sentence.
Ok dude, who are you? Mr. Fight Fucking Guru? Hasn’t the very name of the sport mixed martial arts dawned in you, you fucking moron? BJ Penn could take the punch, Rick Franklin did take it more than once in his two fights with Silva, holy hell Big Nog has made a living of taking punches like that only to come back and sub the shit out of people. The blow Fedor took when he got slammed and still came back to beat Fujitia... I continued to fume in my head, feeling the color in my face starting to rise. Ok Mr. MMA, I’m sure ‘no one can take that punch’… hey wait a minute, Mr. MMA… yeah dude that is your name until I leave this job. From here on out, you’re Mr. MMA.
With that I had a nickname for him. Two days later he would give me the speech that got all of this started.
And in 361 days, I'm going to strike a blow that so many out there only wish for. Only 361 days till I fight my fucking boss.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
How this Party Got Started (362 Days Till I Fight My Boss)
No shit, there I was. I put it this way because the first thing you need to know about me is I’m an Army Vet. I went to college on the GI Bill, have multiple combat tours, and have had the axiom of “lead from the front, at all times lead from the front!” drilled into my head repeatedly. This served me well in the military, and in life. It’s a shame more people don’t live by it.
I had been working in the gym for almost a month. After teaching my morning fitness classes I ventured into the weight room/mat room to wipe down the equipment from the usual morning work out rush.
Lately the gym has had issues with the contracted cleaning staff and if you plan on keeping a gym going, making sure the equipment is clean is one of the top requirements. With that, I picked up a spray bottle and set up doing the little things I needed to keep my job.
Making it into the mat room I found Mr. MMA, "meditating" as he called it. I call it laying on the mats with your eyes closed taking a post work out nap.
I started working quietly. No production, no "look at me" bullshit. I just wanted to do the job and not deal with Mr. MMA. Halfway through the task Mr. MMA looks up at me and asked "has anyone talked to you about being a manager, Boss Fighter?"
"No" I replied, which is a half-truth. The owner I like said he was pushing for me to get the recently opened up position. However, last night he'd asked me to keep a lid on that information.
"Let me ask you something, Boss Fighter. Are you an arrogant man?" A look of grave concern now plastered on Mr. MMA's face.
booooooooooooooog
The Kung Fu Movie Zen gong sounded in my head and all I could think was: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Spray bottle in my hand and a can't win situation in front of me I split the difference.
"I think I'm confident," I replied. "But I think the problem with that question, Mr. MMA, is that the difference is often as much about how you are perceived as how you present yourself."
"There is no real difference Boss Fighter,” he tells me, attempting to have great gravity and depth in his voice. It sounded like an Asian guy imitating David Carradine’s character did in the "Kill Bill" movies.
"How so Mr. MMA?" I ask in an attempt to be polite.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I already know the answer because we all know a guy like Mr. MMA. The person who’s read "The Book of the Five Rings," so now they are the next coming of the Buddha. It only makes it worse that Mr. MMA is Asian and speaks with a slight accent. The only way he could be more cliche is if he started calling me "young grasshoppa."
"Confident people," Dr MMA intones, "carry that confidence on the inside, they are humble on the outside.”
No shit, really? I thought real confidence was, like, a superficial thing. And why does this have to be all about a “he,” you sexist fuck? Can’t women be confident? Sadly, having that sort of equal rights discussion wouldn’t have been well received.
"An arrogant man,” Mr. MMA blathered on, “is one who carries that feeling on the outside. It is for others to see and he does it selfishly, he is not humble, he is not magnanimous. He is proud.” Mr. MMA then proceeded to spend the next five minutes talking about all the things that he has done in his life. How his graduate degrees shaped him. How all his martial arts training has helped him on his journey. How successfully he has navigated the treacherous waters of business so well and so successfully, leading him to ask me:
“Do you think you have some life experience, Boss Fighter? Do you have a background that has instilled wisdom and humility into your life?”
“Well I have to say being in the Army was a pretty humbling experience…” I started...
“I haven’t known you well enough to judge, but most military guys I’ve met are horrible, Boss Fighter. At tournaments, I’ve met Green Berets and Navy SEALS and Marines and they are all…” He paused to let his disgust build before he spewed, “…lazy. They are generally unfocused and undisciplined men, Boss Fighter. And all of them are arrogant, proud men. I won’t let one of my yellow belts, let along a black belt, fight any of those military guys. I don’t want my students to become corrupted by their poor work ethic.”
The breath I took can only be described as proof that serenity now works. I’m proud to tell people I’m a Vet. I've always felt honored to have served my country. I may not have Mr. MMA’s graduate degrees. I kicking down doors and leading men into combat. Apparently, in Mr. MMA’s world, that sort of experience doesn’t count for anything- at least at Martial Arts tournaments.
"So tell me Boss Fighter are you confident and humble, or are you proud and arrogant?"
Ha, yeah. Like that isn’t a loaded question after your little anti-military rant. You fucking asshole. I thought, biting the inside of my mouth. Reminding myself for the 4th time in the past minute to just keep breathing. I could give fuck all about your definition of success. I’m much more of a “do or do not” type of guy, but you don’t want to hear that. Nor do you want to hear how much I wish I could spray and wipe out your mouth with the disinfectant in my hand.
All those thoughts flying through my head and what do I say? "I'm probably a little of both."
Nice Boss Fighter, very smooth. That-a-way to tell him something.
"All men are vain Boss Fighter,” Mr. MMA decided that we needed to have another lesson from his school of Zen. “All men have vanity, but what I wonder about you is if you have enough of a handle on your vanity to be a good manager, to be a leader. I have lead groups from 1 to 100. Managed task from putting the lock on a door to the building of a building…"
I want to fucking fight you. God DAMNIT I want to fight you. I want to just step in and put my fucking shin upside your smug fat head and keep driving until you are out cold on the fucking mat! Was all I could think - over and over again, like the skip prone Beatles record I had as a kid.
"Rarely, Boss Fighter, very rarely…" Mr. MMA said with raised voice, snapping me out of my violent daydream. “...have I met a good leader who isn't at least 40-50 years old and making 200-300k a year."
What the fuck, asshole? I thought, thinking of my former Platoon leader, my 24-year-old squad leader, of the girl who spoke at my commencement in college. At 22 she’d started two non-profits to help fight 3rd world poverty and was studying at Cambridge.
Finally, mercifully, he patted me on the shoulder. Then, as he walks away, he reminds me to wipe down where he was just laying.
Watching him walk out of the mat room I had one single, solitary, burning thought: I’m going to fucking fight you. I’m going to hit you in the mouth, and keep hitting you till you’re out cold on the floor, Mr. MMA. I’m going to beat that smug look off your face. I’m going to smile gleefully as you become the latest victim of pride going before the fall. I’m going to fucking fight you.
And in 362 Days, I am.
I had been working in the gym for almost a month. After teaching my morning fitness classes I ventured into the weight room/mat room to wipe down the equipment from the usual morning work out rush.
Lately the gym has had issues with the contracted cleaning staff and if you plan on keeping a gym going, making sure the equipment is clean is one of the top requirements. With that, I picked up a spray bottle and set up doing the little things I needed to keep my job.
Making it into the mat room I found Mr. MMA, "meditating" as he called it. I call it laying on the mats with your eyes closed taking a post work out nap.
I started working quietly. No production, no "look at me" bullshit. I just wanted to do the job and not deal with Mr. MMA. Halfway through the task Mr. MMA looks up at me and asked "has anyone talked to you about being a manager, Boss Fighter?"
"No" I replied, which is a half-truth. The owner I like said he was pushing for me to get the recently opened up position. However, last night he'd asked me to keep a lid on that information.
"Let me ask you something, Boss Fighter. Are you an arrogant man?" A look of grave concern now plastered on Mr. MMA's face.
booooooooooooooog
The Kung Fu Movie Zen gong sounded in my head and all I could think was: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Spray bottle in my hand and a can't win situation in front of me I split the difference.
"I think I'm confident," I replied. "But I think the problem with that question, Mr. MMA, is that the difference is often as much about how you are perceived as how you present yourself."
"There is no real difference Boss Fighter,” he tells me, attempting to have great gravity and depth in his voice. It sounded like an Asian guy imitating David Carradine’s character did in the "Kill Bill" movies.
"How so Mr. MMA?" I ask in an attempt to be polite.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I already know the answer because we all know a guy like Mr. MMA. The person who’s read "The Book of the Five Rings," so now they are the next coming of the Buddha. It only makes it worse that Mr. MMA is Asian and speaks with a slight accent. The only way he could be more cliche is if he started calling me "young grasshoppa."
"Confident people," Dr MMA intones, "carry that confidence on the inside, they are humble on the outside.”
No shit, really? I thought real confidence was, like, a superficial thing. And why does this have to be all about a “he,” you sexist fuck? Can’t women be confident? Sadly, having that sort of equal rights discussion wouldn’t have been well received.
"An arrogant man,” Mr. MMA blathered on, “is one who carries that feeling on the outside. It is for others to see and he does it selfishly, he is not humble, he is not magnanimous. He is proud.” Mr. MMA then proceeded to spend the next five minutes talking about all the things that he has done in his life. How his graduate degrees shaped him. How all his martial arts training has helped him on his journey. How successfully he has navigated the treacherous waters of business so well and so successfully, leading him to ask me:
“Do you think you have some life experience, Boss Fighter? Do you have a background that has instilled wisdom and humility into your life?”
“Well I have to say being in the Army was a pretty humbling experience…” I started...
“I haven’t known you well enough to judge, but most military guys I’ve met are horrible, Boss Fighter. At tournaments, I’ve met Green Berets and Navy SEALS and Marines and they are all…” He paused to let his disgust build before he spewed, “…lazy. They are generally unfocused and undisciplined men, Boss Fighter. And all of them are arrogant, proud men. I won’t let one of my yellow belts, let along a black belt, fight any of those military guys. I don’t want my students to become corrupted by their poor work ethic.”
The breath I took can only be described as proof that serenity now works. I’m proud to tell people I’m a Vet. I've always felt honored to have served my country. I may not have Mr. MMA’s graduate degrees. I kicking down doors and leading men into combat. Apparently, in Mr. MMA’s world, that sort of experience doesn’t count for anything- at least at Martial Arts tournaments.
"So tell me Boss Fighter are you confident and humble, or are you proud and arrogant?"
Ha, yeah. Like that isn’t a loaded question after your little anti-military rant. You fucking asshole. I thought, biting the inside of my mouth. Reminding myself for the 4th time in the past minute to just keep breathing. I could give fuck all about your definition of success. I’m much more of a “do or do not” type of guy, but you don’t want to hear that. Nor do you want to hear how much I wish I could spray and wipe out your mouth with the disinfectant in my hand.
All those thoughts flying through my head and what do I say? "I'm probably a little of both."
Nice Boss Fighter, very smooth. That-a-way to tell him something.
"All men are vain Boss Fighter,” Mr. MMA decided that we needed to have another lesson from his school of Zen. “All men have vanity, but what I wonder about you is if you have enough of a handle on your vanity to be a good manager, to be a leader. I have lead groups from 1 to 100. Managed task from putting the lock on a door to the building of a building…"
I want to fucking fight you. God DAMNIT I want to fight you. I want to just step in and put my fucking shin upside your smug fat head and keep driving until you are out cold on the fucking mat! Was all I could think - over and over again, like the skip prone Beatles record I had as a kid.
"Rarely, Boss Fighter, very rarely…" Mr. MMA said with raised voice, snapping me out of my violent daydream. “...have I met a good leader who isn't at least 40-50 years old and making 200-300k a year."
What the fuck, asshole? I thought, thinking of my former Platoon leader, my 24-year-old squad leader, of the girl who spoke at my commencement in college. At 22 she’d started two non-profits to help fight 3rd world poverty and was studying at Cambridge.
Finally, mercifully, he patted me on the shoulder. Then, as he walks away, he reminds me to wipe down where he was just laying.
Watching him walk out of the mat room I had one single, solitary, burning thought: I’m going to fucking fight you. I’m going to hit you in the mouth, and keep hitting you till you’re out cold on the floor, Mr. MMA. I’m going to beat that smug look off your face. I’m going to smile gleefully as you become the latest victim of pride going before the fall. I’m going to fucking fight you.
And in 362 Days, I am.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
In One Year, I'm Going to Fight My Boss
I’m new to my city. I moved here after I graduated college in May with a degree in a liberal arts discipline. When I graduated college I'd planned to go into sales. Maybe make a little extra as a freelance writer. That was the plan, and like most plans it ran right into the wall known as reality. If you’d told me I would end up working as a personal trainer/towel boy under a prick like my boss, I’d have told you you’re fucking crazy.
Unless you are one of those very lucky people in the world, you have a boss. Someone, at the very least, who tells you what to do and is the person you report to. If you’re lucky you have a good boss. Someone you respect and maybe even admire.
However, since 60% of the American public hate their jobs or wish they were doing something else, I’m guessing you have a boss like me: an arrogant control freak that is out of touch with reality and cares only about him or herself. You do the work. They take the credit. They screw something up. You get thrown under the bus. They show up late constantly. You get called out the day you come in five minutes late.
There is this huge part of you that just wants to tap them on the shoulder one Friday right before your typically meager ten minute lunch break and punch them as hard as you can in the face, isn’t there? Well, I’m going to do it. One year from today, I’m going to fight my boss, “Mr. MMA.”
I work as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor at a gym in a major city. In the gym we have a Martial Arts School. Mr. MMA is the owner of that Martial Arts School, and is also a part owner in the gym itself. He’s a 3rd degree black belt in an art that judges the winner by scoring points and not actually doing damage. An art he thinks is superior to everything else on the planet. He'll happily tell you so, as he smirks at the inferiority of all other Martial Arts.
He is almost six feet tall and 210+ pounds. Mr MMA holds a sizable reach, height and weight advantage over me. He's extremely quick for any person, let alone a man in his early 40’s. If the fight were tomorrow, there’s a 95% chance he’d win. He’s been training in his pansy ass martial art for decades. Point scoring or not, it's still far more than the two years of kickboxing I have under my belt.
That’s why I’m giving myself a year. A year to train. A year to watch and observe him, and to make enough inroads into the city I just moved to so I can move on without any repercussions from the ass whooping I am going to give Mr. MMA.
18 September 2009 Mr. MMA and I will fight. Hopefully, right around the time he thinks he’s leaving to eat lunch, and in just enough time for me to turn a long weekend into a permanent career change. That is, after he's out cold on the floor.
I do, in fairness to them, have other bosses. Frankly, they’re pretty cool. Yet, to me, Mr. MMA is just that bad. So in 364 days and a wake up, I’m going to do what the overwhelming majority of Americans want to do, but can’t. I’m going to step into the world of a person that I can’t stand and shatter it. I’m going to do what our forefathers used to be able to do, settle a matter with your fists and that be the end of it.
I'm going to fight my fucking boss.
Unless you are one of those very lucky people in the world, you have a boss. Someone, at the very least, who tells you what to do and is the person you report to. If you’re lucky you have a good boss. Someone you respect and maybe even admire.
However, since 60% of the American public hate their jobs or wish they were doing something else, I’m guessing you have a boss like me: an arrogant control freak that is out of touch with reality and cares only about him or herself. You do the work. They take the credit. They screw something up. You get thrown under the bus. They show up late constantly. You get called out the day you come in five minutes late.
There is this huge part of you that just wants to tap them on the shoulder one Friday right before your typically meager ten minute lunch break and punch them as hard as you can in the face, isn’t there? Well, I’m going to do it. One year from today, I’m going to fight my boss, “Mr. MMA.”
I work as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor at a gym in a major city. In the gym we have a Martial Arts School. Mr. MMA is the owner of that Martial Arts School, and is also a part owner in the gym itself. He’s a 3rd degree black belt in an art that judges the winner by scoring points and not actually doing damage. An art he thinks is superior to everything else on the planet. He'll happily tell you so, as he smirks at the inferiority of all other Martial Arts.
He is almost six feet tall and 210+ pounds. Mr MMA holds a sizable reach, height and weight advantage over me. He's extremely quick for any person, let alone a man in his early 40’s. If the fight were tomorrow, there’s a 95% chance he’d win. He’s been training in his pansy ass martial art for decades. Point scoring or not, it's still far more than the two years of kickboxing I have under my belt.
That’s why I’m giving myself a year. A year to train. A year to watch and observe him, and to make enough inroads into the city I just moved to so I can move on without any repercussions from the ass whooping I am going to give Mr. MMA.
18 September 2009 Mr. MMA and I will fight. Hopefully, right around the time he thinks he’s leaving to eat lunch, and in just enough time for me to turn a long weekend into a permanent career change. That is, after he's out cold on the floor.
I do, in fairness to them, have other bosses. Frankly, they’re pretty cool. Yet, to me, Mr. MMA is just that bad. So in 364 days and a wake up, I’m going to do what the overwhelming majority of Americans want to do, but can’t. I’m going to step into the world of a person that I can’t stand and shatter it. I’m going to do what our forefathers used to be able to do, settle a matter with your fists and that be the end of it.
I'm going to fight my fucking boss.
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