The Cleaning Ladies

I’m very conflicted about the people who clean the workout room in the hotel where I go to exercise every day. It seems like whenever I go to work out, and I’ve gone at all different times of the day, there are two cleaning people there. They don’t seem to be any happier to see me than I am to see them. This is a small exercise room - maybe 20 machines, tops. We’re in each other’s way. I go to the treadmill farthest away from them and start my routine.

They never finish before I’m through, which is 40 minutes. No matter where they are I can see them because there are mirrors all over the place. They zig and zag all over the room with their spray bottles, absently wiping down the same exercise machines, and it’s obvious that they’re hiding out from their supervisor and killing time. The closer they get to my treadmill, the more irritated I get. When they start spraying the treadmills on either side of me, I want to put my towel over my head.

They’re using strong cleaning solution in a poorly ventilated room. It’s a health hazard. I’m breathing hard and taking in more air because I’m working out. I could be allergic. (I’m not, but I could be.) And from there, it’s just a short leap to, Yeah, that’s it! I’m going to tell them I’m allergic. Except they don’t speak English. No problem.

While walking 3.8 m.p.h., I begin an elaborate pantomime with the cleaning woman standing on the treadmill next to me. I wave to get her attention. She looks startled, suspicious, and a bit angry. Her bottle is alarmingly close to my face, finger poised on the trigger.

First I point to myself. Then I point to her spray bottle, and spray an imaginary bottle at my machine. Then I pretend sneeze. I look at her meaningfully. She stares at me, no longer startled but still suspicious. I assume she has understood me, and launch into my second "sentence." I point to myself. I point at my treadmill. I hold up one hand, five fingers spread wide. I point to my watch. I pantomime walking with my index and middle finger. I point to the door. I almost fall off my treadmill then, but manage to grab the handles and maintain 3.8.

The cleaning lady is now staring at me like you would look at a large, scary spider who is so near the ceiling, you don’t know how you’re going to kill him. Then she shrugs her shoulders and nods. For one brief moment I congratulate myself on my abilities as a communicator. I should work at the UN. She understands that I’m allergic to her cleaning solution, but if she waits just five minutes, I’ll be done and gone.

The next thing I know, the cleaning lady is leaning over her treadmill and spraying mine all over. Because I’ve reflexively closed my eyes, I am hanging onto the side handles for dear life. I can feel the spray covering my right side. When I sense that it’s safe, I open one eye and jab the red "STOP" button. The dashboard is slippery wet. I grab my IPOD and wobble towards the door. I am not sneezing. The cleaning lady waves.

So here’s where the argument in my head begins. Selfish Joan is outraged. She paid A Lot Of Money for the privilege of using that treadmill. And those people are just goofing off. They are making the whole experience more unpleasant than it is already, and giving her yet another excuse not to go at all. Why do they have to be there every day? She considers reporting them. Begrudgingly, SJ also acknowledges that she is also frustrated because her cover has been completely blown. She can hardly strengthen her case with allergies if she complains to management, since she is now literally dripping with cleaning solution, yet her eyes are clear and her nose is dry.

Benevolent Joan chimes in: Those poor cleaning ladies are probably supporting many people on their minimum wages, they have no skills for advancement and will be stuck in menial jobs for the rest of their lives. Whereas you, Selfish Joan, are going home to read a book for an hour before starting dinner which, face it, if you don’t feel like cooking, you don’t have to. You are so lucky...

Righteous Joan is beside herself. Luck has nothing to do with it! I was once a cleaning lady myself, when I was in college. My childhood was no cakewalk, you know...

And on and on they go. There are actually dozens of people squaring off in my mind at all times. Stick around. You’ll get to meet them all.