Tuesday, December 4, 2007

I'm A M-A-N

The doorbell rang pretty early yesterday morning. It was almost noon. I'd been so busy since I'd fallen out of bed, like with breakfast and stuff, that I hadn't been able to change out of my pajamas. Vanessa had a strange look on her face when she told me to see who was there. I grumbled something about missing the end of Good Times on my Tivo (it was a pre-Janet Jackson episode, so it hadn't jumped the shark yet) as I trudged to the door. She grumbled something about how I looked like I'd fallen right back into my bad habits. I twisted the doorknob in silent denial. It was just jet lag. It is a 3-hour flight home from Florida, after all. I pulled on the door.

A large - very, very large in every way- African-American man stood in front of me. He was smiling. No offense, but I don't live in a neighborhood filled with many smiling and very, very large African-American men. My life passed before my eyes.

And then he began to sing.

Very, Very Large African-American Man: Now when I was a little boy, at the age of five...

My eyes were closed. I could sense a large blunt object was going to strike me across the head. His voice struck me first. It was very good.

Very, Very Large African-American Man: I had somethin in my pocket, keep a lot of folks alive...

My life was still flirting by. I had just reached my early-twenties. He kept on singing.

Very, Very Large African-American Man: Now I'm a man, made twenty-one, you know baby, we can have a lot of fun.

I opened my eyes to see his looking right back into mine. It hit me - not the blunt object - but the realization that he wasn't there to rape and pillage me. I could tell because Vanessa had joined me at the door. She was laughing. The Very, Very Large African-American Man kept on singing.

Very, Very Large African-American Man: I'm a man, I spell M... A child. N...man. That mannish boy.
Me: Excuse me.
Very, Very Large African-American Man: I'm a rolling stone.
Me: Hi.
Very, Very Large African-American Man: I'm a roly-poly man.
Me: Do you speak or just sing?
Very, Very Large African-American Man: I'm a hoochie-coochie man.
Me: I'm becoming an annoyed man.

He suddenly stopped. I turned to Vanessa, who had tears in her eyes from her laughter. There was a joke being played, and since I was a little more than clueless, I could tell it was being played on me. I decided to be cool about it all.

Me: This isn't funny! We don't know who this guy is! You need to take life a little more seriously, Vanessa.

What a lovely woman. She patted me on the shoulder, smiled at the man, and retreated to another room. No doubt, she was muttering something about her devotion to me as she disappeared.

The man remained.

Me: What?
Very, Very Large African-American Man: I'm you're new personal trainer.
Me: I didn't hire you.
Very, Very Large African-American Man: Surprise!

I don't get surprised very often. And although I'd never heard of a singing personal trainer-gram, my immediate assumption was this man should have at least jumped out of a cake. Which made me hungry for lunch. I asked him in, told him I could fire up the oven and we could stuff a couple of personal pizzas in our mouths. He declined for both of us. All he said was "Get dressed." He waited in the front hall while I reluctantly went upstairs to change.

Vanessa was in the bedroom.

Me: Did you know about this?
Vanessa: Yes.
Me: Who arranged this whole thing?
Vanessa: The team that's going to pay you millions of dollars this coming season.
Me: They don't have the right.

Vanessa smiled and sat me down on the bed. I felt a little vulnerable as I hadn't finished changing yet. My underpants were all that separated my manhood from the dressing-down I was about to receive.

She said something like this: Jimmy, I love you. Your family loves you. Your team... doesn't love you the way we do. But they expect you to act a certain way. One of those ways they want you to act is like an athlete, a professional one. They'd like you to be prepared to earn the money they want to pay you. They'd like you to try to be a competitive person again. They'd also like you to see a psychiatrist to treat you for this depression.

I asked if it was the team or her that wanted me to see the psychiatrist. She patted me on the shoulder again and told me it didn't matter.

The point is, the team just signed The Jimmy Scott of Japan because The Jimmy Scott of America no longer exists.

Her: You need a kick in the ass.
Me: I need a stiff drink.
Her: No you don't. Your vice is bad television.
Me: Yeah, but you can't get drunk off of it.

I nodded my head, found some workout pants and pulled them on. She watched me, but not with the eyes of the 20 year old young lady I met and courted way back when Vanessa was 20 years old. No, her eyes now were the disappointed kind. I'd won championships, awards, set records, made millions upon millions of dollars...

And my wife was still disappointed in me.

Men don't cry. But they can sure swallow their pride when their backs are to the wall.

Me: I get it. See you later. I'm going to work out now.

Downstairs, the very, very large African-American Man stood waiting for me. I told him I was ready. Let's go.

For the next six hours, my diet consisted of nothing but carbohydrates and water while my body sweated in places I didn't think had pores. You know what? It felt pretty damn good.

Oh, my new personal trainer is named Andy. He's housebroken. I think we're keeping him.

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