I’m going to write about something I’ve never written about before. I’ve always considered it too boring and uninteresting.

I want to write about refinancing.

Is there anything more mundane than refinancing a mortgage? It is perhaps the very definition of bourgeois. It means you have a large, immovable possession that roots you to a place. BUT EVEN MORE, it means that you have had that large immovable possession for a long time.

Many, many people have the same situation. It is not a terribly adventurous or creative thing to accomplish.

People who refinance are the same sort of people who stop and go next to me in the pod-o-mobiles on the way through the 20-mile-an-hour-stop-and-go traffic. These people are the same people who wear the business casual clothes from Target and Mervyn’s that I wear.

These people are the demographic. These people are the satisfied—the well-fed who worry mostly about which people they didn’t manage to sleep with. I worry mostly that I am becoming one of these people.

I don’t want to be like everyone else. I want to be free-thinking and artistic and unique. I think about this as I chose my business casual clothes each day. And as I surge slowly through the cattle drive of rush hour traffic.

But I am doing a refinance. This is something none of the bourgeois enjoy doing.

We—dare I say it? —We don’t enjoy all the small print and the thinking of what it means. And are we getting screwed? How many itemizations have we forgotten to compare?

I’ve discovered that there are “packages.” There are tables and specials and the things that the mortgage brokers are selling.

I looked into it. I compared. I figured out exactly what I want. I found a lender who will give it to me.

Of course, I had to compare against other lenders. But no one has a “package” for what I want. In fact, while shopping for my refinance, I discovered that most of the lenders couldn’t even do what I want. They were so surprised that I asked for that particular type of loan, that I started to doubt my research.

I asked Chris about it. “Why is it so surprising to these people? Did I do the math wrong?”

“You are asking the lenders. Who do you think is benefiting from the packages they are trying to sell you? You did the research.” He gave me a squeeze and said, “You’re smarter than the average bear.”

Well.

That makes me feel a little less of a sheep in the bourgeois herd. I guess if I can do an avant-gard refinance, I can’t be too off my mark

I finally decided to join a gym.

It’s been a while, and I hate to spend the money on something I could theoretically do at home.

But I was getting tired of the same exercise video at home, and I thought about it. If I go to the gym near work, I will shave about 30-45 minutes of drive time in the morning…What if I took that time and used it to exercise instead of drive? That would be worthwhile!

So, I found a club right near my job. I joined, and was taken in my the sales pitch. They had a SALE on personal training sessions. How serious was I about my fitness goals, really? A personal trainer would take me to the next level.

Wow! The next level! Give me a scoop of that.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I hate people telling me what to do. I can’t stand exercise classes, because who are these idiots telling me to “Breathe!” and “Kick higher!”?

Leave me alone. I’ll be just fine on my elliptical trainer and the weight machines.

I snuck into the gym alone a few times before making an appointment for the personal training sessions. Sneaky, aren’t I? I fooled myself good.

But the inevitable could not be delayed. I could not let these sessions go unredeemed. This was money, after all!

The appointment was made, and the next morning was the day of judgement. Immediately, I regretted tying myself down like that. Who was this personal trainer anyway? “Greg”—his name tells me nothing.

He’s probably an idiot. I’m going to ask him important questions about health and workout strategies and he will look at me with no comprehension and no answer.

He is probably a nineteen year old community college dropout who will try to sell me Myoplex powder. He will probably be short and have no sense of humor.

He will be stupid. He will come up to me, and will do the ‘orientation’, which involves a caliper to test my body fat.

This is what the internet tells me about calipers, also known as the ‘pinch test’: they are only a good way to measure body fat when handled by someone who knows what they are doing.

So, some gel-spiked short bicep-heavy teenager is going to shoddily pinch my fat at 6:30 am, and he won’t even get my incisive quips. He will try to sell me something so lame it doesnt’ even have an informercial.

AND I HAVE PAID FOR THIS PRIVILEGE.

How did I sign up to have a homo half-a-sapien pinch my fat before dawn? What does that say about me, really?

Maybe I can get out of it. Perhaps I can put a sharp little comment out there, and if he is as idiotic as I fear I will simply bow out of the fat pinching. I’ll just go straight to the weights and ask for a new trainer. A girl. Aren’t chicks smarter in general?

No, all gym rats are stupid. There is no way around it. This is a lost cause and I am fool for being suckered in.

This situation I have gotten myself into is simply a bad deal all around. I must only endure it.

The alarm rang early. I drove to the gym and was there early, too. I admit I was nervous.

I said as much to Greg. He nodded seriously, and talked about what would be happening that day.

Greg was not a teenager. Greg was tall. Greg actually had a lot of experience, and was good with the questions. The fat pinching was handled with professionalism, and I feel reassured.

We’ll see how it goes, but things were not as bad as I feared.