Back when I was a Frat Star and not yet Red Pill Superstar GaylubeOil, I had a serious problem. I had passed all the hurdles required to become a practicing personal trainer, the certifications, interviews and client acquisition. I even had great sales numbers, retention and yelp reviews. My problem was session completion rate.
I would show up for work everyday at 5:45 AM mush my oatmeal bananas and cinnamon together in my Tupperware, and enjoy the sunrise as excuses flooded my phone. Flat tires, doctor's appointments, malfunctioning alarms, traffic, children, illness, sick pets and no call no shows. Every day I would get fucked out of about half of my paycheck because my clients preferred sleeping in to working out.
However, it wasn't just me who was getting fucked. My Fitness Manager was also getting fucked because his bonus was tied to the session service count of the trainers in his charge. So basically he was getting fucked for $200 monthly because of me, which ironically is why I had this valuable life lesson bestowed upon me.
So anyway I get to work 15 minutes before my first client, not that she was going to make 6 AM anyway. The gym is calm. Just the quiet hum of treadmills and the slow steps of the elderly. I sit down by my favorite window, watch the sunrise and begin to swirl my cinnamon bananas and oatmeal together. Out of the corner of my eye I see my Fitness Manager getting his pay stub from HR. I glance at my phone, see the beginning of a lame ass excuse from my client. I text some nonsense that makes it seem like I care and get back to my oats. Dawn is breaking.
The serenity of sunset and oats is suddenly ruined because Corporal Brown aka my fitness manager is standing over me, half yelling a mispronunciation of my Russian name, half trying to maintain a veneer of professionalism. Marines like to attack at dawn apparently. We make our way into a soundproof office because it is clear that much needs to be expressed outside the purview of complaint prone elderly white women.
With the door firmly closed I was ready to receive Corporal Brown's wisdom.
Why the fuck do only half of your clients show?
My response was some variation of how it wasn't my fault that my clients were lazy. I had done my best to motivate them and ultimately it was there responsibility to show up. If they didn't show up that was there problem. I did my job.
WRONG! Your clients belong to you. They are yours. They are a direct reflection of you and your professional ability.
When they fuck up, it is your fuck up . In fact it doesn't matter whether or not you choose to believe this. You better start believing because that's what the gym already believes. Every second you are here, the gym is judging you on the success and ability of your clients.
That awkward nerd is your awkward nerd. That bored housewife is your housewife. That chubby lonely gay is your gay.
Your job is not only to give the nerd confidence, but also to help the housewife cheat on her husband, and get the gay fit enough to get as much backdoor action as he wants. That's your job.
Your job isn't actually fitness because no one pays $1000 a month for fitness. People only spend that kind of money on dreams. They might say it's fitness but only because they're afraid of telling you their dreams. Your job to make dreams come true. The job description says personal trainer but its actually magic genie .
Clients need to feel that you will make their dreams come true and that you are willing to hold them accountable. It's a lot harder to flake on a magical wish granting genie than an early morning workout.
Needless to say Corporal Brown gave himself a $200 a month raise and thought me an important lesson about ownership. However ownership doesn't end at guilting Hallie Housewife honoring her commitment to fitness while dishonoring her commitment to monogamy.
Ownership is about keeping yourself accountable. Your puppy groomed and not peeing everywhere accountable. Your plate taking her birth control everyday accountable. Your girlfriend fit healthy and pleasant company accountable. For those of us on the Endorsed Contributor team, ownership also means keeping our army of Red Pill men accountable to themselves, masculinity and their muscles.
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