The ‘Freshman 15’ is also known to be as prevalent in banking as it is for college girls. It certainly was the case for me. 100 hour work weeks. Breakfast from Starbucks. Lunch from Pret at my desk. Dinner at my desk. 8pm would be the perfect time to go to the gym. But, it’s too risky. Any Associate or ED might call in just to see who is still on the floor, or to legitimately make changes to presentations. And God forbid I’m at the gym and one of my fellow analysts answers the phone. Beep. Beep. Under the fucking bus. I should know. I’m the Keanu Reeves of my analyst class.
It’s not only the job that has contributed to my rapid weight gain. For the first time in my life, I don’t have to rely on my parents for money. That means whenever I’m not eating at my desk, I’m eating out – and never going lower than any Zagat Top 10 category.
Work. Drink. Eat. Drink. Pass Out. Repeat.
I’m 19th century sexy – pale skin and a fat ass, and fortunately, a fatter wallet.
Translation: I have gained 30 pounds in my first 4 months as an analyst.
But, it’s time to get back into shape. We’re heading into holiday season, which means if I am not careful, I can easily gain another 10 pounds before the year is out. Thankfully, it also means capital market activity is slowing down, evaluations are done, and the face-time wardens have loosened the leash.
So instead of sneaking out for a few drinks with the other analysts, I decide to head to the gym.
iPods have not been invented yet, so I’m still rocking the Sony portable CD player.
Of course, it’s been so long since I was last at the gym that my AA batteries are dead. There is no way that I can sit on a treadmill for any meaningful length of time without some kind of music to fire me up. And there is no way I can cope with the Enya shit they are playing over the gym speakers. But that does give me an idea.
I take my Napster-produced CD mix up to the check-in counter, and ask the cockney fag with the Beckham faux-hawk to put it on for me. It takes a little bit of convincing, but the gym isn’t that crowded, so he reluctantly obliges.
I head back to my machine, crank it up to a 7 minute mile pace, cover the clock up with my towel, and I’m off. That’s pretty fast for an out-of-shape fast ass like me, but I’m optimistic that my music will kick in and give me the motivation I need to uncover the high school me – varsity soccer, squash, and golf.
A few minutes goes by and no music. 5 minutes later, and still no music. I’m losing my mojo here.
Meanwhile, a guy I think I vaguely know from HR walks in, nods at a couple of people he recognizes and then gets on the treadmill next to me. He cranks it all the way up, and immediately starts marathoning like a Kenyan. Literally. This guy is blacker than Wesley Snipes after a vacation on the sun.
All of a sudden, my music finally kicks in – blasting throughout the entire gym.
Come on, uhh, uhhh, huhhh
But they don’t hear me though
A few people look up, possibly pleasantly surprised, but probably not.
Uhh, but they don’t hear me though
Uhh, but they don’t… but they don’t
I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse
I got blood on my dick cuz I fucked a corpse
I’m a nasty nigga, when u pass by me nigga look me in my eyes
Tell me to my fuckin face that u ready to die.
U be a dead mutha fucka, red mutha fucka
Don’t be stupid, u heard what I said mutha fucka
Who shot u ohhh nigga like u don’t know
Stickin u for your doe, while I’m fuckin your broke ho
And then it carries on poetically from there.
It had really never occurred to me that the first song on my CD is one of DMX’s love ballads, and that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea.
Everyone literally stops what they are doing. The entire gym comes to a complete halt. Some people are just confused, clearly wondering if they are hearing what they think they are hearing. Others are visibly offended.
No one says anything. Everyone just stares… not at me, but at the black guy next to me. Stares slowly evolve into glares.
Disdain. Dismay. Disgust.
Wesley Snipes, still in the zone, never notices a thing. I was right; he must be in HR.
I look over at the cutish girl to my left, shrug my shoulders, nod toward Wesley Snipes and give her a look that says “Yeah. Can you believe this guy? What a dick.”