Team Santos: We want to pump YOU up!

From kindergarten to the last day of high school, if you asked which class was my least favorite, I always had the same answer: gym.  I would have voluntarily taken a dose of obscure Russian literature in the 2nd grade, rather than suffer through 45 minutes of Red Rover with my classmates. 


Why?  It wasn't that I was a lazy kid, or even that I didn't like to be active.  My sister and I spent all of our childhood summers riding our bikes, running around the neighborhood (fine, we were chasing the ice cream truck), and choreographing some pretty sassy routines on our roller skates to several Mariah Carey hits.  But taking physical education was not about staying active.  Gym class meant throwing on a pair of city-issued mesh shorts and running around with your peers, all while trying to pretend you weren't profusely sweating in front of that cute boy from English class.  Gym class meant learning the rules to needlessly complicated team sports  (Ultimate Frisbee?  This game was created by Satan).  And, while I attempted to use several hundred excuses to get myself out of gym class ("I sprained my finger overusing my graphing calculator"; "My poor circulation makes my legs look purple in these gym shorts"; "I'm allergic to spherical objects"), I still showed up for every class.  Because my parents had this thing about me graduating high school. 

So, I even surprised myself when I decided to join a gym last year as an adult.  I mean, this was voluntary and (what's worse) I was now forking over money to have the privilege of going back to gym class.  My search for the "right" gym included several key requirements: it had to be cheap; it couldn't be in Cranston (for fear of constant interaction with former high school classmates) and it had to include a free t-shirt upon registration.  My search led me to a Planet Fitness in Warwick, where I am now a (surprisingly) active member. 

My gym experience last year was marked by several highlights:
1.) I bent down to scratch my ankle while using an elliptical machine and hit myself in the face with the moving handle. 
2.) I found the fishbowl full of Tootsie Rolls on the registration desk.  I re-fuel every ten minutes or so, to avoid low blood sugar. 
3.) I winked at the handsome personal trainer.  This man now assumes I have a facial twitch. 

Just when I started wondering how I could possibly spice up my workout routine in 2011, I was joined by my first workout buddy: my Dad.  For those readers who have not met Pops Santos, let me paint a brief picture.  My Dad is a Portuguese version of Jack Byrne (Robert DeNiro's character on "Meet the Parents").  Though he's got a heart of gold and is an awfully likable guy, he's got a very firm "don't f*%@ with me" outer shell that constantly catches new boyfriends and telemarketers by surprise.  In his 20's, Dad used to move pianos for work.  Now, despite the fact that he's over 50 and has had both of his knees replaced, he could still pick up a refrigerator and toss it (with relative accuracy).  He casually throws this fact into conversation when meeting any potential boyfriends. 

Naturally, I was thrilled to have a new gym pal for 2011.  In fact, I may have gone a little overboard (how atypical for me).  I had "Team Santos" jerseys made.  I figured we should look sharp in case Nike is looking for a couple of intergenerational spokespeople, now that Tiger has blown his chances at the "family friendly" angle.  I kept envisioning our first Nike commercial:

There are folks working out, as normal.  You can hear the occasional clang of a dumbbell, some shuffling on a treadmill.  Then, out of nowhere, "Eye of the Tiger" starts to jam over the speakers and (BOOM!) the doors open with a bang.  Fog and neon lights fill the room.  In slow motion, "Team Santos" walks into the door in perfect step: a hauntingly beautiful 20-something girl with perfectly non-frizzy curls blowing in the wind, joined by her tough-as-nails Pops with silver (don't call it grey) hair.  They high five without looking at each other and flash their badges to the front desk.  Then, they each go run a 4 minute mile and bench press 600 lb. 

Just do it.  

While I was jogging and rehearsing this scene in my mind, Dad was getting his bearings and learning the ropes in his new gym.  Wanting to keep my gym pal motivated, I provided lots of verbal encouragement ("NO PAIN, NO GAIN, Pops!") and inspirational gestures (I attempted to do the wave by myself while running - not a good idea).  I guess he couldn't hear me because most of my motivational comments went unacknowledged, despite several dirty looks by the folks on the stationary bikes. 

Although Nike has not yet drawn up our official contracts, I am happy to report that we have been getting to the gym several times per week since the beginning of the year.  I can now run a 42 minute mile and my nose has healed quite well after the elliptical machine incident.  Dad is doing great as well: he is biking several miles each workout and lifting weights.  I figure that, by the time the personal trainer realizes my winking is not a spasm and winks back, Pops Santos should be strong enough to throw a treadmill at him, using only his pinky.