The Write Woman asks, “What’s in a Name?” (Whittled down to 317 Days)

Have you ever met someone for the first time and you like him (or her) alright, until he tells you his name? Suddenly all the imagination hatches open, and you peer closely at his face searching for some zit or mole as an excuse not to like him. Well the same goes for pleasant names. Like I heard that some girl thought Ellen DeGeneres had the name Ellen the Generous. I thought, “Isn’t that nice? Ellen does appear to be a very generous person.” What’s in a name?

Take my name for example. Sure, you know me as MJ Brewer, the magical writer who knows all the answers, but my name is Michelle. Think about that! What kind of person do you think Ms. Hell-Brewer is? Names spell it out, right? So think about your own name for a moment. Decide if hearing the same thing over and over again has an impact on who you’ve become. Ms. Hell-Brewer has no friends—otherwise I wouldn’t have the time I have to write this blog.

Now that we’ve gotten past question as to whether I’m a nice person or not, let me verify your opinion for you. This morning at the gym, I got there at 4:30 a.m., thinking I would have the place all to myself with no one to bother me, right? Well, it was true for a while, but the gym is for all the members, not just one. So when I was finishing up the weight portion of my routine, about an hour later, this bald and stinky guy comes strolling past, waving his reeking towel around. I’m not sure if it’s to air out or spread his testosterone through the air to unsuspecting takers.

I watched him for a minute as he passed in front of me, and then noticed he doesn’t even wipe the equipment down when he’s finished. This is a huge pet peeve of mine. So I am-scrayed over to the stair-climber, figuring ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ I grabbed the machine in the front right

corner, leaving at least eight machines to my left. I began working out—harder and longer on that machine than I ever had. I was set to blow off 500 calories in an hour, which is not an easy feat for me.

Half an hour later, sweat running down my neck and dripping onto my purple face, I was determined to climb those damned infinite stairs until I hit 500 calories, or an hour, whichever came first. But then it happened. Glossy top, sticky shorts climbed on the machine next door, abandoning the thought of possibly climbing onto one of the other lonely devices. 

Staring straight ahead, I concentrated as my plum-colored face reflected back at me from the huge windowpane. Perspiration was trickling down my back and I was quietly grunting like a piglet trapped under a fence. Okay, a piglet would probably squeal like the dickens. I concentrated on keeping my mouth closed and controlling my breathing—right up to the point my new comrade cleared his throat with a snort. I thought he was dying, but he was opening his mouth to release the dirty toilet odors he’d been restraining to keep to himself.

My eyes bugged and I attempted to hold my breath, but it was impossible with the velocity I had built up. Glancing at my calories, I could see I was almost there. Then, believe it or not, it got worse. He apparently got a whiff of himself because he either pulled out extremely strong mints, or one of those air fresheners that hang in the side of the bowl—either way it was strong. I pretended I was running away from him and moved even faster.

In the end, I accomplished my goal, and then some at 550, with fifteen minutes left. But when my time was up, instead of steadying myself and catching my breath, I staggered to the wall by the garbage, almost certain I was going to puke. But I didn’t, I manned up.

I grabbed the sanitizer, walked back to the machine and wiped it down. “Wow!” he exhaled, as

he urged me closer to the edge of sanity, “Quite the workout, eh?”

I could feel Ms. Hell-Brewer emerging and thought if I stayed I’d pull an Anthony Perkins, so I made a dash for my car. I don’t even remember getting there. I was just grateful I was going to the sanctity of my rambunctious kids in my little apartment. What's in a name? Danika, my Morning Star, is just what I needed!