It’s seconds before 4:30 in the morning, and I feel like Chris Farley in a tutu. I’ve got on my irregular shorts, which shrunk in the wash, minus the price tag, and Surrender has me in a way-too-small, unflattering lime-green sleeveless T-shirt.
I’m six. The number is on the front and back of the shirt. I’m happy to report that the man boobs are receding. However, I have something much worse: “love handles.”
By the way, who in the flying gefilte fish loves ’em? They’re hate handles. I politely ask the desk attendant, a young woman, for a larger shirt.
“You’re all set,” she says dismissively. “You’re a medium, Six.”
I don’t like being a number, and I hate feeling swollen. I’ve deleted “fat” from my vocabulary. We’re evolving, right?
“Have they measured you yet?” she asks, surveying me. “Get in line and get measured!”
Suddenly, I’m the bloated, tragic dude in Full Metal Jacket. (Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen the flick, he eventually blows his brains out.)
After I’m measured, weighed, and photographed shirtless, I’m directed to a disconcertingly bright, frigid room with hardwood floors. There are twenty-four spaces, most of which have been claimed by men who look like rejects from the world’s worst kickball team.
I fit right in.
Courtesy Sports Illustrated
I’m embarrassed. If I had a paper bag, I’d make like a New York Jets fan and put it over my head. I keep my eyes down and sit in space six. A small, bright electronic timer is on the wall.
35:00
Relief. I can do anything for thirty-five minutes. At least, I think I can. But I hope they turn the AC off. My goosebumps look contagious. Moments later, every space is filled—men only. Abruptly, the lights blink, the AC shuts off, and heavy metal blasts. Two women, dressed from head to toe in black, strut in. They’re wearing mic headsets.
“Welcome!” greets one of the ninjas. “Now, let’s man up! High knees, boys! We might be able to make men out of you.”
She lifts her knees past her waist in rapid succession. “Let’s go,” she orders. “Don’t be a pussy!”
Meanwhile, her ninja colleague works the room.
“Smile, Twenty-Two! This is your shot to get a life!”
“More pace, Four! Namaste my ass!”
“If you want to be somewhere else, Fifteen, we’ll make that happen!”
“Yo, Eight, this isn’t intramurals. Let’s go, bro!”
I’m spared.
Tiny bubbles of perspiration replace my goosebumps. Where’s that AC? My mind wanders to her. It’s a glorious weekend afternoon in the burbs. We’re swimming in the pool, as well as bliss, psyched for the rest of our lives. One heartbeat.
“Hey, Six, how’s it feel to be a six?
Well, at least I’m not a five… or lower.
Is your head up your ass, Six? Because it sure as hell’s not here! And why are you wearing a diaper?!”
Shame, humiliation, again. Everyone knew about her and him—except me. I’m pissed.
My knees go higher. Yes, yes, my head was way up my ass. I order myself to get in the game and vow to toss these ridiculous shorts. “Mountain climbers!” yells the chief ninja. “Give me fifty! Count ’em out! We’re not going to do this, are we, people? LOUDER!” My hideous lime-green T-shirt is soaked.
27:24
I’m not keeping up. I want to quit.
I don’t. When we’re finally granted a moment to breathe, I sit in a puddle of perspiration and sip water. I’m drained, but I feel more alive than ever.
7:31
“Six volunteers, green line!” orders the chief ninja. “Now!”
No one comes forward.
“Five, Twelve, Three, Six, Sixteen, and Twenty-Three, step to the Green line!” she orders.
There are three lines in front of us: Red, Blue, and Black, each about seven yards apart. The chief ninja orders us to sprint to the Red, touch it, and sprint back to the Green. She orders us to do the same for the Blue and Black lines, no stopping, three times. In a less sensitive time, this drill was referred to as a suicide drill.
“You’re running for your lives!” barks the chief ninja. “Now GO!”
I run like hell, or at least try to. I would’ve finished last, but Twelve slipped on the Black. When we limp in, the next six take off. By the time we’re up again, I’m still hyperventilating.
4:55
The floor’s slick with sweat. Someone else surrenders. My legs come out from under me on the Blue. Everyone’s sliding. If I could spare the oxygen, I’d crack up at this band of misfits trying to vanquish their hate handles. Meanwhile, the ninjas crank out commands. “Get off your ass, bro, and suck it up!” is a favorite. Meanwhile, my handles are on full display, but I’m too delirious to do anything about it. I should be grateful that my schlong didn’t pop out of my diaper shorts. I want out of this torture chamber.
But, no, I will not leave.
I must and will soldier on. I slip again on the Black but manage to wobble in. I’m nauseous, and I must look it because a ninja directs me to a garbage pail. I lean over and proceed to regurgitate half of General Tao’s army. I shouldn’t have had that cheap Chinese with Dad, but he pestered me. It’s one of his go-tos, a hole-in-the-wall with two tables. A sheet of bulletproof plexiglass separates the patrons from the order-takers.
0:00
I strip off my lime-green T-shirt and my idiotic shorts. I shower. I turn the knob, left, right, left, but all I get is frigid. After a few moments, I submit. This is a different kind of pain, and I revel in it.
I feel less swollen. I must’ve been very swollen.
___________
Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
