I have taught fitness for over twelve years now.   I could be having the worst day ever and by the time class is over, I’m renewed and refreshed thanks to my students.  Screw endorphins.  All I really need is their sweat and adoration.

The stories I could tell you about the various gyms I’ve worked at are not to be believed.  It’s like “As The Treadmill Turns”.

Since I’m typically the token male instructor at the gym, I’m regarded as a bit of novelty.  People come in to class and stare at me as if I was a unicorn.   A foul-mouthed unicorn at that.  When I’m teaching, I can’t seem to curb my potty mouth.  It doesn’t help I’m wearing a Janet Jackson-type headset either.  Any slip of the tongue and half the gym hears my obscenities.   I have yet to drop the “F-bomb”, mind you.  But everything else is fair game.  If the class gets whiny (which inevitably happens), I typically bark, “Push through the pain, bitches!”  If a female instructor said that to a room full of women, she’d be beaten to death with the various barbells strategically placed around the gym.   With me, they eat it up with a spoon.

I have nicknames for most of my students.  Terms of endearment.  Take the 60-something lady with eggplant-colored hair.  I called her “Grandma Funk”.  She became infamous, introducing herself to new students as Grandma Funk.  She’d rarely miss a class.  If she knew the song that was playing, she’d sing along loudly.  And she’d always add a superfluous booty-shake to nearly every exercise.

Another gal who shall remain nameless once poked her head in to the gym seconds before class started.  She announced, “Michael, can’t make it to class, hon. I’ve got a SCORCHING yeast infection.”  (I loved that she used the term SCORCHING.)  The class immediately turned in unison to gauge my reaction.  I nodded and said, “Thanks for the heads-up.  Maybe you could throw some raisins down there and make us scones?”

Through the years, I have always managed to keep my nose clean.  But I’m sure I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.   I wear my shorts far too short.  It’s a miracle there hasn’t been a wardrobe malfunction.  And Lord knows I play my Lady Gaga remixes too loud, but no one seems to complain.

Except for one.

Early in my fitness career, a heavy-set woman in a purple velour workout suit stomped up to me after class and spouted, “I don’t particularly care for your teaching style.”  I said, “I don’t particularly care for your crushed velvet purple jumpsuit.”  I forgot I was still wearing my microphone when I said it.  (Okay, not really.) She sneered and immediately went to complain to the front desk about my behavior.  The owner said, “I don’t care for his teaching style either, but his class is always packed so he must be doing something right.  By the way, that is not a good color on you.”

We didn’t see much of “Barney The Manatee” after that.