Where working out meets rocking out.

Unemployment took away my last excuse not to go to the gym… work. And for that I will never forgive it. If you’re reading this, unemployment, consider yourself out of the will. The cats now get my ever-shrinking pile of assets. (Wifey will have to take it up with the furry ones.) My gym membership is cheap and paid through some time next year. All that prevents me from going these days is laziness and achiness (by which I mean laziness).

My gym has three reasonably convenient locations and many more totally inconvenient locations. One is in midtown, across the street from a previous employer and a short subway ride from home. Working out was so convenient until layoff #2. I still go there sometimes in the late morning to avoid the lunch-time and after-work crowds. Another location a few stops further downtown in Chelsea is bigger and better, but also more crowded. Working out during off-peak times is still perfectly pleasant. And then there’s the Elmhurst location within walking distance of my apartment, where I go if I’m pressed for time or – like today – just don’t feel like riding (or paying $4 to ride) the subway. That place is a madhouse.

I left for the gym at about 9:30 this morning. It was drizzling and sunny, and the sky threatened thunderstorms, portending another day of confusing weather. There was also a 30% chance of snow, a 20% chance of tsunami and 10% chance that the atmosphere would solidify into some sort of jello-like substance making it impossible to do anything. I crossed underneath the subway tracks as the 7 train rumbled overhead, and wound through Elmhurst past the hospital and the park. I turned down through a neighborhood of houses, most of which have been converted into apartments, judging by all the doorbells and Direct TV dishes. A few have been remodeled or torn down and rebuilt into some blocky, tasteless monstrosity. Many more are just kind of drab. At Queens Blvd., I crossed over to the gym.

The one-story box of a building sits right on the boulevard of death next to an LIRR overpass, some used car dealerships and a few hotels that probably rent rooms by the hour. One dealership I’ve watched shrink over the last year from two lots and 60+ cars for sale to half of one lot and about ten cars. And one motel I’ve watched go up right next to it; all they forgot was a sign big enough for passersby to actually see. A huge billboard on the overpass advertises Big Macs at McDonalds with the words, “Sobrang masala may kasamang extra bun.” Who knew that “two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions” could be boiled down to four words? A huge public intermediate school sits behind the gym, and buses line up next to it. If I go around 8:00 or leave around 3:00, I inevitably end up following a group of 13-year-olds and looking like a total perv.

The gym was packed, because it’s always packed. Every person in Elmhurst is required to hang out at this gym for two hours each day; working out is optional. I signed up for a couple aerobic machines at the front desk. The earliest available was in an hour. Every machine looked to be occupied when I got inside. Some people were working out, some were talking on cell phones, and some were trying to do both. I jumped on a recumbent bike when one opened up.

As if the crowds weren’t bad enough, the noise levels were just ungodly. Pumping club music covers of 80s songs blared from the aerobics room, as the instructor yelled instructions into her headset microphone. Some of the TVs played corporate music videos of beautiful, disaffected white guys rocking out in construction sites and on the tops of buildings. The accompanying audio came through the club’s speakers. Other TVs tuned to CNN played the news. People yelled into their cell phones over all of this and to their friends across the gym. I hoped my head wouldn’t explode.

I moved from the bike to a cross-trainer when my turn came up, kicking off the woman who tried to take my spot and putting my towel in the drink holder not lined with hardened bubblegum. The air conditioning wasn’t really on, and I was sweating profusely. Soon after, a 40-something-year-old woman busting out of her stretchy black and white gym outfit took the machine next to me. She was all silicon and botox, and damn proud of it. I glanced over, and she flashed me a smile through her lipstick, at least what amounts to a smile for someone who can’t move her face. Distracted from a New York Times Magazine article about aesthetically unpleasing construction, I looked over again a minute later. The Williamsburg Bridge may be ugly, but who could possibly ignore a living, breathing disaster two feet away? She smiled again. I cringed.

When construction lady was done, one of the two people I know at the gym – an unemployed engineer – took over the machine. We chatted about what would happen once unemployment insurance ran out. He has his eyes on a job at McDonalds. I’m thinking Starbucks. My reasons are simple… I don’t want to get fat, and I’d much rather be scalded by coffee than grease. The conversation moved on to the situation in Iran and places to play ping-pong in Flushing. I finished up on the cross-trainer and went for some water.

By the water fountain in the locker room, I ran into the one other person I know at the gym – a heavyset retired guy who enjoys science fiction and Broadway shows. We met many months ago when he commented about The New Yorker magazine I was reading. He was surprised to see it in a gym where no one even speaks English. We chatted briefly about the drag cabaret show I saw over the weekend and what movies we wanted to see.

My time on the elliptical trainer was uneventful, except for the OK Go’s brilliant orchestrated treadmill dance routine video, which came on. Someone programming the music videos for Big Gym TV has a sense of humor, or not. It seemed appropriate either way. The old Jewish guy who works out like he’s on a mission was nowhere to be found. Nor were his right-wing buddies, whom he greets by yelling political nonsense across the room. The Tourette Syndrome guy who spouts off randomly in Italian wasn’t there around either; I think he comes in evenings. The stretching area was unusually quiet. The crew of old ladies who sit around telling dirty jokes was noticeably absent. I finished up my workout in relative peace.

Leaving the gym, I passed an employee returning from her smoke break and waited at the corner for the traffic light. I was tired and had the beginnings of a headache. It had been a relatively quiet workout, but I was still less relaxed than when I arrived. Tomorrow I’ll spend the four bucks and go workout in peace.

Every so often a funk grabs a hold of me, for no good reason. And not the sequined Rick James funk of awesomeness either. I feel sorry for myself. I lament my unemployment and the general state of my life. I start to envy all the things everyone else has and I don’t – big apartments, cars, jobs, stuff. It’s an ugly scene, and the envy can reach ridiculous proportions. The other day I found myself begrudging Matthew McConaughey his success as an actor. Why should I care? I don’t even want to be the male lead in bad romance comedies that should go straight to DVD. The six-pack abs would be nice though. And the million-dollar paychecks… I’d take those.

When in these funks, I feel like the only person who is struggling – a ridiculous notion, but true in the world of me, myself and I. This is a selfish and irrational way of looking at things. And people would be right to call me out on it in the forums and comments sections. Hell, you have my permission to walk right up on the street and slap me across the face if you have to. I forget to give equal weight to all the good things in my life – family, health, etc. They get minimized and pushed aside. The feeling sorry for myself isn’t productive. But it happens every now and again, often enough that I recognize the cycle for what it is.

My birthday was such a good time that the letdown afterward probably sparked this latest round of woe is me. But any little slight or setback can do it. Getting out of bed that next morning took some serious effort. I lay there staring at the insides of my eyelids, thinking that more sleep might make everything better. But more sleep only makes me feel guilty for wasting the morning. So I dragged my ass up, put on my workout clothes and headed off to the gym.

This funk-y workout wasn’t very good as workouts go. They never are. I tried to harness the negative feelings to push myself harder. In the movie version of my life, this would be the montage scene before the moment of truth. Alas, without the ’80s music, the cameras and the inspiration, this tactic didn’t work. Rocky had Drago. Lane Meyer had Roy Stalin, that blond-haired skier guy. I have unemployment as my nemesis. There was no face to picture when eking out that last set. There wasn’t even a last set. I just wanted to go home and stay there.

Home is the best place when I’m in a funk. The only people around the apartment during the day are the cats. And they just sleep and leave behind tumbleweed-like fur balls. I did go out that afternoon for cookies and coffee – the bread and nectar of life. I have to stay strong in case a potential employer wants to interview me. I can’t be scaring children like Michael Jackson or Sophia Loren if I ever want to work again. Walking the streets was a challenge. People were everywhere and always in my way. Part of that is just my neighborhood, Jackson Heights, where most of South America now lives. Everyone seemed to be going important places and doing important things. Most of them, of course, were not. But I saw everything through a lens of negativity. It made me want to just push people out of my way.

Nothing seemed to work right during the funk. My muscles felt heavy. My brain couldn’t hold a thought. I moved with lethargy and less purpose, avoiding new tasks and lingering over tasks that are second nature. My attitude was poor, and my temper short. I complained about really stupid, unimportant stuff. And I got teary-eyed and emotional over sappy TV. (Damn you Sarah McLachlan for showing me hurt animals!) The frustration, boredom and dissatisfaction inside leaked out in weird ways.

Something always pulls me back into real life. This time it was a two-year-old boy on the subway discovering the world outside. He stood on the seat watching the passing buildings, pointing and laughing as his mother held him steady. I sat across the aisle, iPod on, watching him. Something about the scene made me feel better. Maybe it was his joy. Maybe it was his innocence. Maybe the chemicals in my body picked that moment to readjust in a way that improved my mood. I don’t know, but I’m glad it’s over.

We all have ups and downs in our moods. They’re part of life. But unemployment can make the peaks higher and, in my case, the valleys lower. I go through these cycles often enough to recognize them. If I could steer clear, I would. That hasn’t worked so far, so I just try to just be productive and minimize the downtime. My best is the most I can ask of myself.

Go see Clint kick ass, just not on a weekday afternoon

[Beck song plays in cafe, barely audible over instrumental headphone music]

[Pots rattle in kitchen]

[Chatter of customer placing an order]

One of the luxuries of unemployment is my schedule. I can basically do whatever I want whenever I want. So if I’m not feeling the gym in the morning – when the aerobics classes blare Latin House and people who shouldn’t be wearing tights bend over a lot – I go in the afternoon. Or I tell myself that my arms feel a little sore and skip it altogether. Then I get to work, but not before a quick flex and preen in the full-length mirror. (Yes, those guns are real, but don’t be scared.)

[Man at next table taps incessantly]

[Norm sighs audibly]

My wife, to her credit, keeps urging me to do something fun. Feeling like I’d made some strides these last couple of weeks, I finally gave in. In almost three months of unemployment, this would be my first real, honest-to-God slacking. I went to a 2:00 showing of Gran Torino (no fluff in my slacking, just morals, heavy themes and death). And it felt weird, like I was doing something wrong, like I should be doing something more important (sending out resume number 18,437, for example).

[Faint keyboard clicking heard between headphone songs]

[Nondescript singer-songwriter whines over an acoustic guitar]

[Man at next table taps to beat]

There’s something uniquely depressing about a movie theater on a weekday afternoon. All these movies playing, but nobody watching. The few people who did show up, seemed to come more out of boredom than interest. The lady in line before me was looking for a movie with subtitles, any movie; she didn’t care what she saw.

[Man at next table takes cell phone call; loud prattle ensues]

Gran Torino played in one of the big auditoriums with stadium seating. I arrived during previews and – wouldn’t you know it – got a seat halfway up the aisle and dead center. The whole row was mine until that same old lady and her adult son sat down. An audience of seven total, and everyone besides the mother and son came alone. Sure, empty theaters are more comfortable, but audience vibe is important to the movie-going experience. And the only vibe there was loneliness.

[Man at next table continues loud cell phone conversation while smelling really bad]

The other downside of weekday matinees is subtitles. I can hear perfectly fine, but I found myself reading the dialogue and descriptions of various sounds. This is not a knock on the movie; it was actually quite moving and thought-provoking. My eyes were just drawn to the words because they were there. While Clint Eastwood was being a badass, I was reading about Clint Eastwood being a badass. Some of the effect was lost.

[Bathroom door squeaks as it opens and shuts]

[Toilet flushes in background]

[Volume of man's cellphone conversation gets louder as he returns]

Gran Torino is definitely worth seeing, even if you’re lukewarm on Clint Eastwood. The man knows how to direct a movie, and act in one for that matter. And with one of the Oscar movies under my belt, I can fantasize about all the post-award water cooler conversations I’ll miss. The other movies will have to wait for a weekend when my wife and I are both free, or video. But the next time I feel the urge to slack, I’ll try a different activity. There’s a bar around the corner frequented by grizzled drinkers twice my age. A liquor-fueled afternoon in their company could be just the kind of break to lift my spirits.

[Sound of scuffle]

[Sound of man's cellphone smashing against wall]

[Patrons cheer]

I tend to be all business at the gym and, for that reason, not terribly social. Still there are two people that I’ve become friendly with. The first – an older and recently retired gentleman – I met when he shared just how amazed he was that someone else at our gym read The New Yorker. The second is a pudgy Asian guy who is about my age and also unemployed. I don’t remember how we met.

I see the unemployed guy a few times a week. He always asks after my job search and laments the state of his. (He’s an engineer who’s been unemployed for about seven months.) We might then discuss when the job market will pick up again (mid to late 2009, if we’re lucky) or what other types of jobs I could pursue (sales or something trademark-related). He’s dead set on working as an engineer, so I suggest companies and geographical areas where he might have more luck.

Today we happened to be on adjacent elliptical machines. After breezing through the usual topics and then discussing why the government is better than the private sector (mainly job security), we got onto the topic of Unemployment Insurance. He had recently reached the 26-week point and noticed the balance in the history section of his account was $0. But he’s still receiving payouts.

As I understand the system to work, the original term for which the jobless could expect payouts was 26 weeks. It was extended by 13 weeks and then, on November 20, by another seven weeks. So what that means to me is that he (and I) can make claims and receive payouts for 46 weeks. After that, barring another extension, both of us would be out of luck.

His understanding is a little different than mine. As he explained it, the extensions don’t mean an unemployed person receives more money. They allow for that person to collect the same amount of money over a longer period of time (46 weeks as opposed to 26 weeks). For example, an unemployed person who collects the maximum in New York ($405/week) will collect a total of $10,530 after 26 weeks. The extensions allow that person to spread that amount over a time period up to 46 weeks. He also believes that any money collected beyond the 26 weeks puts your account into the negative. So once you’re employed, you have to repay this.

I think he’s wrong, and here’s why. First of all, the system as he understands it could potentially leave the unemployed worse off. If I were to voluntarily take less money each week to extend the term of the payouts and then find a job before maxing out my benefits, I’d end up with less money. It would make more sense to take the maximum payouts each week and bank whatever I don’t use for when the benefits run out (not that there’s ever extra money). There’s one line of reasoning that makes a tiny bit of sense. People tend to spend what they have, so reducing the benefit and extending the term would help them manage their budget so they’d have money for longer. But that can’t possibly be enough reason to set up Unemployment Insurance this way. His assertion that an unemployed person’s account goes into the negative after 26 weeks is also faulty. Unemployment is funded by a tax on employers not employees.

Still the possibility scared me enough to look into it further. I found nothing to substantiate his understanding of how the unemployment extensions will work. It simply seems that New York state hasn’t updated the wording on the site (except to add a separate page about the extensions) or adjusted its online system. My account still shows that unemployment lasts for 26 weeks too. Maybe the extensions require a claimant to file again. That’s a question I’ll have to ask.

For your reading pleasure, here’s the wording about the extensions on the NYS Department of Labor site…

“On November 20, 2008, Congress passed legislation to extend the Emergency Unemployment Compensation (EUC) allowing an additional seven (7) weeks of benefits, for a total of 20 weeks of EUC. This 7-week extension is referred to as Extended EUC, and is based on New York State’s unemployment rate. The first week of benefits that can be paid under this 7-week extension is the week ending November 30, 2008. Unemployed individuals may claim benefits for this week from Sunday, November 30, 2008 through Saturday, December 6, 2008 by using this website or by calling our toll-free Tel-Service number at 1-888-581-5812 (New York State residents), 1-888-864-9920 (out of state residents), or 1-877-205-3119 (TTY/TDD equipment users).”

“Under current legislation, new claims for Emergency Unemployment Compensation (EUC) can be initiated through the week ending March 29, 2009. No EUC can be paid for any week that begins after August 30, 2009. The weekly benefit amount paid for EUC is the same amount the individual received for regular unemployment benefits.”

I did discover one thing that concerns me. My 46 weeks would extend past the August 30 cutoff date. I could theoretically lose a few weeks of unemployment. It may end up a moot point if the job market worsens and Obama extends benefits. I’ll still be calling the Department of Labor bright and early on Monday to find out just what the deal is.