Teapot Lifters

Every work out facility across the nation houses at least one Teapot Lifter. You know the song, it goes something like this, “I’m a little teapot short and stout. Here is my handle. Here is my spout. When I get all fired up hear me shout, Tip me over and pour me out.”

Teapot lifters push themselves and the veins in their foreheads to the limit while curling, squatting and pulling massive amounts of weight with a focused and often loud determination. I have more than once been startled by a forceful “Yeee-AHHHH” exploding from the poor man’s diaphragm. I try to give these guys the benefit of a surprised glance. I am well aware of the scripted weight room dance. The teapot is ready, the weight has been lifted and someone needs to take immediate notice of this feat. Once eye contact is made via workout mirror, TP (teapot lifter) will let the weights slip from his hands, as if in slow motion, like the Incredible Hulk during his shirt ripping transformation. Such brute strength can not be maintained for long. In the moment it takes to shift my eyes back to my own bicep curls, the teapot’s dumb bells crash to the floor beneath the sign from management which politely whispers, “Please do not drop weights on the floor. Thank you.” Despite my best efforts this annoys me and often makes me jump, even though I know the quake is coming. Outside of the mirror distraction they pose to completing my own workouts, I find these men fascinating to watch and observe.

One day while working out at my local gym, I caught sight of a possible TP lifter. Seated on the leg extension machine, I turned to watch his thick legs, twice the size of my own legs, but perhaps half the length, raise the leg extension bar away from his body. The concentrated effort kept his gaze focused. His quadriceps dutifully flexed and bulged while his knees seemed to beg for mercy. I waited a moment to see if the joint would hold or spring free with a rebellious pop, walking out on such an abusive relationship. He made it to the last two reps which were followed by the characteristic “UHHHH-ahhhh”. Smiling, I smugly announced to myself, “Tea time!” then continued with my given workout for the day. When I finished I made my way to the mats for some stretching to cool down.
I move through a series of yoga poses as part of my cool down. About half way through my routine, TP pulled up an exercise ball and struck up a conversation.
“So, do you do yoga?” He asked, bouncing slightly on the huge red ball. His east coast accent served as an immediate notification that he was not born and bred in the Midwest.

“ I do.” I answered, surprised he knew the poses were yoga ones.

“Yeah,” he continued, leaning back on the ball to commence his ab crunching, “I recognized a few of the poses you were doing there as the same ones I used to do in my yoga class.”

My brain attempted to reconcile the conflicting images of this stout mustached man stretched out on a yoga mat, moving gracefully through a series of poses with the one I had just witnessed. Just a few moments ago, he could have been the poster boy for testosterone, forcefully pumping iron with vein popping effort. He did not seem to notice my confusion and rattled off the names of the poses he knew and liked.

“Do you take classes anywhere around here?” He continued, “because I just moved here and I’d really like to find somewhere to go.”

“I don’t actually,” I admitted, “most of what I know is just self taught.” My shock quickly morphed into delight as I tried to casually study this man. This dark haired man, wearing black shorts, a black tee-shirt and a black baseball cap with bright read lettered on it, finds yoga interesting and enjoyable. Somehow yoga poses opened up a door of common ground between this man and myself, whom, just moments earlier I had mentally stuffed into an ill-fitting stereotypical box. He moved with ease through a series of ab exercises. He seemed to posses no desire to prove his masculinity or make a flirtatious remark. As far as I could tell, this man simply wanted to find a new yoga studio to call home and thought I might possess that knowledge.

We finished up our conversation. I suggested a couple of studios that I heard were good. He thanked me and after a few crunches, he hopped off of the ball and went on his way. I haven’t seen him again, but I like to think that he found a yoga-home and is peacefully practicing his Triangle pose with the guidance of a loving, gentle-voiced instructor. What do I know after all? The tea pot lifter in your local gym could be a quilter for all I know, a dedicated rose gardener! How unexpected and amazingly wonderful is that!