“Don’t you guys have a school or something?” he asked, looking me up and down and settling his gaze on the bicep that was helping to hold up the staff.
“Of course,” I answered trying not to show my surprise and annoyance. “When I’m not here, I’m there.” He waited, expecting me to continue speaking and answer the question he wasn’t quite rude enough to ask directly.
“So… is there more space here?”
“Yes.” I hoped that would be the end of his inquisition, but I knew it wasn’t.
He looked away, thinking for a moment, as the slow elevator continued to chug along to the third level of the parking lot. “You’re lucky Ray’s not still here.”
Having no idea who Ray was, I shrugged. The diminutive trainer with a model’s face and a body builder’s chest turned his face toward the two women who’d just left his 45-minute boot camp, but he continued talking to me.
“Ray ran the squash program. If he was still here, you wouldn’t have any room to practice. He had those courts filled every night.”
The elevator door opened on my floor, so I didn’t take the time to point out to him that I practice in all the gym’s spaces that are available to me and my staff. So unless Ray could keep me out of the yoga room, the boxing room and the step-it studio, everyone would still have to deal with whatever it is about my weapons practice that’s apparently threatening to a professional trainer and boxing coach. What I actually said was: “Okay.” Then, I walked to my car.
I care very much about whether I’m taking up space that someone else is entitled to, but I just don’t have time to tip toe around the ego of an apparently insecure personal trainer whose classes never take place in a room I use for practice. Life’s just too short for that kind of nonsense… and there’s way too much training to be done.
Middle-Aged Martial Arts Mom 