I’m working reception at a gym, and one of our members, who we have dubbed as “Little Miss Impossible” due to the nature of her almost daily unrealistic requests, marches up to me.

Member: “I’m trying to work out, and there are too many geese!”

Me: “Geese?”

I start looking around to see if I missed the entrance of any waterfowl, but my quick scan comes back with nothing.

Me: “I don’t see any geese, ma’am.”

Member: “No, you idiot! Not here! Outside! There are too many geese outside!”

Me: “You mean by the lake next to the gym?”

Member: “Obviously! They honking and just… throwing me off my rhythm. And I can see them all through the big window! They’re ugly!”

Me: “What are you expecting me to do about it?”

Member: “Move them along!”

Me: *Trying not to laugh at the comical mental imagery* “Ma’am, they’re not loitering. They live in the lake. I can’t just ‘move them along’.”

Member: “They should have all flown south by now! Go and tell them it’s winter!”

Me: “I can’t do that, ma’am.”

Member: “Then I will be informing corporate of your laziness!”

Me: “Oh, my God, please do! That will be amazing!”

She informed them. The complaint caused so much laughing that “move the geese along” became an inside joke among the entire gym chain within months whenever anyone was assigned a task that was deemed difficult.

My daughter is autistic, and her therapists suggested scheduling play dates with neurotypical kids so she can learn social cues from them. I don’t know a lot of parents outside of my daughter’s school… and the dojo where I learn karate. My classmates will bring their kids and let them play while we do our class, so it’s a good fit. And the kids love [Daughter]. 

The only problem is [Daughter]’s lack of situational awareness. When she needs Mommy or wants to play in the mat area, she doesn’t care if adults are swinging weapons and each other around.

Luckily, [Daughter] also responds to bribery, so I promised her a Happy Meal (the height of rewards for a kid) if she behaves and stays out of the mat area during class.

During drills one night, I looked over to see four of the kids holding my daughter back from the mats. One of them dramatically shouted:

Kid: “Don’t do it, [Daughter]! Think about the Happy Meal!” 

The entire dojo burst into laughter. I found out what she wanted (just a hug), and she’s since learned she can call out to me for assistance.

I live close to an urban university that allows residents within a certain distance to purchase a membership to the university gym. It’s a good deal, but of course, this means the gym operates on an academic schedule.

After a few months of using mostly the pool, I decided to sign up for a martial arts/cardio class, not realizing it was the week before finals. With most of my fellow gym patrons buried in their books, I was the only one there. 

What followed was forty-five minutes of pure comedy. The instructor was perfectly friendly, welcomed me to my first-ever class, and assured me he was happy to do this one-on-one. He also made no adjustment to his routine whatsoever.

I wasn’t used to that kind of cardio, so I had trouble keeping up with the pace and needed to take a few breaks to have a breather and a sip of water, but the instructor never slowed or paused. I had trouble mirroring his movements, but he never repeated the instructions or turned around so I could see them correctly, even when my confusion caused me to just stop and stare until I got it down.

The only personalized acknowledgment I got was when he told me I was getting too close and asked me to step back. Fair enough, but the reason I was getting close is that there was music blaring and he was shouting into a microphone, and between the feedback and the music, I was struggling to hear him.

But my absolute favorite part of the class was the fact that, along with shouting instructions, the instructor sometimes echoed inspiring lyrics from the music. The singer said, “I’m a fighter,” the instructor told me “You’re a fighter!”, etc. This, too, seemed to be part of his routine from which he could not deviate; multiple times, he shouted at me, “You are not alone!”

Reader, I very much was.

I work in a gym. A young man waves me over to where he’s using a treadmill, claiming there’s a problem with the machine.

Customer: “Yeah, I set this for a half-hour, but it keeps running for longer than that.”

Me: “That’s odd. Can you show me what you were putting in?”

The young man proceeds to put in fifty minutes.

Me: “Ah, uh, that’s your problem. A half-hour is only thirty minutes. Fifty minutes is almost an entire hour.”

Customer: “But… there are a hundred minutes in an hour?”

Me: “We measure an hour as sixty minutes.”

The young man looks really confused.

Customer: “I wish we’d stuck with the metric system. All these American measurements are crazy.”

Related:
It Will Be Kilo-Hours Before He Gets It, Part 2
It Will Be Kilo-Hours Before He Gets It

Our gym has a health bar that makes protein smoothies and other smoothies. A young woman comes up to order.

Young Woman: “Can I get a large Power Pineapple, but make it with the recipe for the small?”

Bar Worker: “Do you mean you want the rest filled with ice?”

Young Woman: “No, I want it filled with smoothie. I just want you to use the recipe for the small.”

Bar Worker: “It’s the same recipe; the ingredients are just doubled.”

Young Woman: “Yes, but I don’t think you’re understanding. I want you to use the ingredients for the small, and make a large with it.”

Bar Worker: “We can do that, but we would have to fill the remaining volume with extra ice, and it would be really watered down. Is that okay?”

Young Woman: “No, I don’t want extra ice. I want all smoothie. I just want you to use the recipe you use for a small.”

Bar Worker: “So, you just want extra space in the cup?”

Young Woman: “No, I want the cup full, but I want you to use the recipe for the small.”

Bar Worker: “The recipe for the small will only make enough to fill a small cup.”

Young Woman: “Look, I just want a large smoothie, full of smoothie, but with the recipe for the small so that there are fewer calories.”

Bar Worker: “Ma’am, that’s not possible. More smoothie means more calories.”

Young Woman: “But the recipe for the small has fewer calories. Look at the board: 250 instead of 500!”

Bar Worker: “Yes, ma’am, because you get half the amount of the large.”

Young Woman: “I don’t get why this is so hard for you. You know what? Forget it. I’ll go somewhere else.”

I wonder if she ever found her smoothie.