Every Wednesday, a group of twelve or so young adults with special needs comes to the gym for a workout. The gym staff, along with their two teachers, puts them through their paces, teaching them how to use various cardio machines and all the cybex gizmos, how to properly hoist free weights, stretch, and whatnot. I have to say it looks like a pain-free, helluva fun job. This group of learners is more enthusiastic than Olivia Newton John in the “Physical” video, I tell you. They are bursting with joy even while sweating and utterly out of breath.
Maybe it’s selfish, but I’m so happy every time I see them trudging up the stairs at 10 am (you can set your watch by their arrival). This was especially true a few weeks ago when I was losing my battle with the elliptical trainer thingy and I couldn’t seem to find anything on the iPod to ease my torture. Not even Justin Timberlake’s “Like I Love You.” (Okay, so now you know. Let the mocking begin.)
But then! But then M., the one in the group who always has his tube socks pulled way up over his knees, hopped on the machine beside me. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He explained that one of the staff members told him that if he could do just a 15-minute workout on the machine, he’d be “The Man!”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “You’ll do it no problem.”
“Yeah!” He began to run in earnest and seemed to find his zone almost immediately.
I played random Prince songs and kept going. When I had about 8 minutes left, I thought eff this. I’m going shopping.
But then! But then M. said, “You’re a star, baby!” I looked over at him and couldn’t tell if he was talking to me. On the chance that he might be, I took off my headphones. “That’s right! A star!” He made a whooping noise, which made me smile in spite of myself. I still didn’t know if he was talking to me, but at that point it didn’t really matter. “I’m takin’ you to Hollywood! Hol! Ly! Wood!”
Fastest eight minutes of my life. And while he didn’t take me to Hollywood, he did take me through those last lousy minutes.
And, yeah, I felt like a star.
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