The Building Manager in the Seventh Circle of Hell

During my eight years (!) of residing in sunny Los Angeles, I have lived in ten different apartments.  Sadly, this is not an exaggeration, and I'm not sure how I managed to live in more than one apartment a year, but hey, shit happens.

Yes, sometimes shit happens.  And sometimes, a monkey picks up that shit to throw it at you, which then hits the proverbial fan on its way to ruining your favorite pair of Skechers.

(This is a dramatization of certain events which took place yesterday in my current place of residence.  The following is a slightly more realistic version.)

So I've been getting fat.  It's no secret - I've even posted a prior blog about it (Ode to my Size 4 Jeans).  No, I'm not obese.  But I need to start working out, period.  But I hate the gym.  And I have back problems which making jogging/running near impossible.  What's a girl to do?

I'll tell you what.  Whilst randomly paging through the desert of bland daytime television programming one day, I happened to stumble upon an infomercial.  Egad!  I was watching the dreaded infomercial, nearly as nefarious an act as accidentally tuning in to the Korean soap opera channel!!  And before you could say 'catatonic,' I was sucked in.

This particular infomercial was for a home exercise program called "Barry's Bootcamp."  It's pretty much what you're picturing...a vastly energetic dude in camo pants who is hyper-supportive (We're so PROUD of you!!  You're on your WAY!!) and whom you feel is hiding some deep, dark secret behind that manic I-wanna-see-you-sweat-til-you-barf smile.

So I asked for it for my birthday.

Lo and behold, ask and ye shall receive!  After a few days of looking at the box on my living room floor as I passed by on my way to the fridge and/or couch, I finally decided to rip it open.  I pulled out the resistance bands, inflated the exercise ball, and got to work.

Now, I've gotta tell ya, I'm not usually one to buy something off the ol' TV, nor am I one to buy into the crazy ideas they try to sell you on.  But I have to admit, camo-pants Barry has something going on.  I felt the difference after my very first workout, and I have continued to feel it each day since.  And the amazing thing is, the workouts are SHORT!  The entire routine is only 21 minutes long - 14 one-minute intensive exercises separated by 30 seconds of rest - you're done almost before you realize you've started!  It's about working SMARTER not HARDER!!  ALL THIS CAN BE YOURS!!  CALL NOW!!!!!

gasp    pant    gasp

Sorry folks.  I seemed to have hopped on the infomercial crazy train for a moment there.

And I've digressed from the story I wanted to tell.  Ahem.

So I was doing my home exercise routine yesterday when a knock sounded at my door.  I immediately knew who it would be - our building manager, who happens to live directly below us.  Sure enough, I opened the door to see his dour, disapproving face staring in at me through the protective barrier of the screen door.

He asked me if I was "exercising or something."  Panting and bathed in sweat, I motioned to my sneakers and gym shorts and said indeed I was.  He told me I had to stop.  "You can't do that.  We hear you downstairs and you wake baby."

Now, let me say right here and now that if I had been jumping up and down on their ceiling at 2 in the morning, or even 7, I would understand.  But this was 10 a.m., a perfectly reasonable time for me to be making a bit of noise - and considering I was only doing 14 minutes of exercise, very little of which involved any sort of noise at all (most of the exercises are squat, lunge, and resistance band-related), I felt I was perfectly within my rights as a paying renter to use my apartment as I saw fit.

But as I'm a fair person, I told him that I never intended to disturb their baby (actually their grand-baby), which is why I chose to exercise in the living room rather than one of the bedrooms.  He said, "Baby sleep in living room," so I said, "Okay, well then, would it be better if I did it in the bedroom?"  Reply:  "No.  You can't do it, you have to stop."

I started to get angry.  I told him that it was my home and that I had the right to exercise in it, particularly since I was barely making noise.  He told me I was being inconsiderate, and I almost inconsiderately punched him in his stupid face. I'll show you inconsiderate, you angry little bastard.

Instead, I once again tried to be the bigger person, and told him that the exercise was necessary for my health, therefore was there a better TIME at which I could do it, so as not to wake the baby?  Once again, I got the same reply:  "No.  You stop now.  No more."

I tried to continue the conversation, at which point he simply turned and WALKED AWAY.  In the middle of my sentence.  I trailed off, looking at his departing back in disbelief.  Then the coup de grace - he threw back over his shoulder, "We never USED to have problem before."

Meaning he didn't have this problem before I moved in with my boyfriend.  Meaning I'm a problem.  Meaning ever since I moved in (almost six months ago, mind you), I've been a big ol' headache in one way or another - he was probably referring not only to the recent noise, but also to the time I called him when our hot water stopped working.  What an awful tenant - it's hard to believe I've never had any problems at ANY of my nine other apartments.

Enough steam was coming out of my ears that I probably could've cooked a bunch of broccoli on top of my head.  I did my best not to slam the door shut.

The unfairness of it all - especially being called 'inconsiderate' when I was attempting to reach out halfway to find a solution that would work for both of us - just GRATED on me.  I was SEETHING inside.  And I needed an outlet.

So I pushed play and finished off my exercise program for the day...though I was sure to stay whisper quiet about the goddamn thing.

I was supposed to do my workout again today.  Instead, I'm sitting here at my desk, in full exercise costume, hesitating to start for fear I'll hear another knock at my door.  And that pisses me off.  

We're not having loud, raucous parties.  We don't crank the TV up to ridiculous decibels.  We pay our rent on time each and every month.  We don't complain when the manager neglects to fix our bathroom floor time and time again, so that a year later, the ancient floor tiles are completely shattered and the plywood is exposed.

No, we're meek, quiet, probably OVERLY considerate tenants.  Which makes the whole situation seem just that more unfair.

So we're gonna move.  We've been planning it for a long time anyway, for many reasons, but this was kind of the final straw and the camel is laid out, folks.

Our apartment manager can kiss my fat-but-trying-to-get-skinny-again ass.  And I'm sure that Barry would be proud of me for saying so.