Harry and Andrea

I walked into the gym one night this week and was greeted by the voice of a former student, “Hi Andrea.”  It took me about 5 minutes to recover and respond appropriately.  She then proceeded to comfortably call me by my first name about 3 times.  There are a few reasons why this bothers me.

1.  I didn’t give her permission to call me Andrea even though I know there’s no logical reason why an adult should call another adult “Mrs. Last Name.”

2.  I just don’t like going to the gym and seeing former students (or closest friends!).  I like to maintain a certain level of anonymity at the gym.  I want to walk in and be ignored (and pretend like I’m just as fit as anyone else in there!).

3.  As a teacher, I tried to maintain a distance between my person and professional life. This forces those two worlds to collide and I don’t know how to deal with it. (And I shouldn’t have to think that hard when I go to the gym!)

4.  It reminds me that a former student works at the gym where I’m a member, which means that she has access to my personal information and has some kind of authority over me (which is just weird!).

5.  It reminds me that she–somewhat effortlessly–has the body I–somehwat effortlessly–had when I was her age.  (And that is just not an encouraging thought when you’re trying to get in shape!)

I visited an exercise class tonight called “Body Pump.”  For some reason the words body pump weren’t informative enough for me.  So, I asked at the front desk what kind of class this was going to be.  An employee, who just happens to be a former student of mine (a story of weirdness for another day), said, “It’s intimidating . . . , but don’t let it intimidate you.”  In a moment of bravery or insanity or just plain-old pride (clearly I couldn’t let a former student think that I was intimidate-able), I confidently made my way over to the classroom.  I was greeted at the door with a bag of halloween candy and a slightly overzealous, smiling, high-pitched teacher saying, “Are you coming to class??????”  I asked the teacher if this was an advanced class and she replied, “Oooooh, noooo,” and a twinkle in her eye that I managed to ignore.

And now, here we are.  An hour and fifteen minutes later, unable to move on the couch and willing the Aleve to teleport itself to the coffeetable with a glass of water.