I really quite like working in a gym, on the whole. I get to talk to people who are positive and motivated to look after themselves. I get to encourage people to make a good change in their lives. Best of all, I get to perve on shapely lads while being paid.
But the down side, at the moment, is the gym manager. He's replaced the last girl, a sweet, friendly, bright young woman who was having some personal problems, and I'm afraid I am underwhelmed by his performance.
He hovers at the sales desk, butting into my conversations with clients with heavy-handed bonhomie. He disappears when he should be on duty. He "volunteers" trainers to do extra shifts or classes without their go-ahead. He makes blanket decisions that make no sense. He doesn't listen to the feedback from clients and experienced staff. The instructors are losing patience. The clients avoid him.
My feeling is that he's a not-particularly-bright macho alpha male, thrust into a job he's not really suited to, trying to assert his dominance by making changes and giving orders that aren't needed. And maybe I could forgive that, if it weren't for two things.
He greets absolutely everyone, every time, with "howyadoinorright?" With every repetition, a little part of my sanity dies.
And he calls me Katster.
I am not a Katster. I am a Kat, a Katherine, a reluctant Kathy. Katster might be my evil-bro-twin, the one that watches sport and drinks beer and chortles at sexist and racist jokes. The Katster gets shitfaced on the weekend and laughs about it. The Katster thinks this man is a good guy, mate.
Kat, however, might just have to resort to murder.
