I just got back from the gym. As I was approaching the front door and was
watching all the activity inside, I couldn't help but wonder
what our ancestors would think about all this. It used to be
that people toiled from sun up to sun down, constant physical
activity just to grow their food, tend their animals, just to
sustain their lives. The concept of going to a building to
climb on machines that will force us to get exercise for 45
minutes, was an alien concept. That it would be the ONLY significant exercise we might get all day, would be somewhat amusing to them, I would think. Nonetheless, there I am with my Ipod in hand.The Gym Show is always worth
watching. The cast of characters which I encounter every day
is worth the price of admission alone. There is never a lack
of Mr and Mrs. Olympia types there, of course, with their
oiled bodies, sculpted abs, energy drinks and workout clothes
designed to show off the lean, sinewy muscle that they work so
hard to attain. There are just as many fat people working
out, which is good because fat people are the ones who SHOULD
be at the gym, not the skinny ones. (Just like churches.
Shouldn't churches be a haven of sinners, rather than a
museum of saints? I digress.) There is one old lady who I
see there every morning. Cute, cute, cute, in a Betty White sort of way. She is in her early 80's for sure, and every morning she is there at 6 am. She comes dressed to
the nines in stretchy slacks, a cashmere sweater, a lovely
scarf with a jewelled brooch and pearls. I am not making this
up. GodLuv'Er, she works out in freakin' pearls. She needs help
climbing on to the treadmill, but once she is on it, she just
jams. Two machines over poses the Nike Godess. Tall,
beautiful and blond, tanned and toned, I just hate her
gorgeous guts. She has that cute ponytail that sticks out
of the back of her baseball hat and itswishes left and right,
and right and left, in rhythm to her run. Her sweat glows and
smells like strawberries 'n cream. Every woman in the place
hates her. Every man in the place is scared of her. Consequently,
there is always an empty machine on either side of her. Would
YOU want to be next to her, invading her aura, being compared
to her? " Not I," said the pig, "not I,"
said the cow, "not I," said the fat, red hen. Contrast that with Mr. High Cholesteral on the machine just in front of me. He scares the hell out of me because I know he is going to have a heart attack right in front of me and I'm going to have to do CPR on his slimy, gelatinous bulk and the thought of my
lips having to force life-saving oxygen into his sweaty, unshaven
face is more than I can bear. Maybe he'll puke up the 8 scrambled eggs and plate of
bacon that he had before working out. Maybe he'll puke it up into
my mouth as I try to save his sorry life. I think about that.
GASP. Somebody shoot me, but there he is, wearing what appears to be
a woolen sweat jacket and long sweat pants and he is walking with the
machine on a steep incline, but he keeps slipping on his own sweat and groaning with each step. I want to speak to him about gastric bypass or methamphetamines, both better alternatives to diet and exercise, if you want my honest opinion. (I'm
not fat enough for gastric bypass and too broke for a drug habit, or else I'd practice what I preach.) In any event, I'm certain that one of these mornings, he is going to die on that machine. I hate watching him, but he is directly in
front of me, so whattygonna do? He does provide some entertainment though because every now and then in true, Real Man fashion, he will pause his machine to rearrange his"package". Now you KNOW what package I'm talking about. He is so overweight that sometimes he really has to fish around for a time to find it, but when he does, herearranges "things" and seems to be so much happier for it. He always looks around to see if anyone is watching
him do it, and of course, EVERYONE is watching him do it. I think that makes his day complete, in a perverse way. There was a new guy at the gym today. I looked up and saw him across the crowded room walking between a row of machines. Fabio, Fabio.
My heart skipped a beat. He was like a Greek God. Time stood still and I watched him stride in slow motion towards me: shoulder length, blond, wavy hair, denim blue eyes, perfect cheekbones, a chisled square jaw. He belonged on the cover of a romance novel and every damsel in that gym was inhaling his testosterone, wanting to have his baby, and sending him with come hither looks . He was too perfect, even here in
Orange County, the land of physical perfection. But I knew as soon as he stepped
into full view, I knew. It was his footwear that gave him away. He
was wearing the latest in avant garde Prada workout shoes. HELLO? RED Prada workout shoes! He was gay as a handbag and I knew it. Gay as 18 red balloons. KAPOWIE, WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!! Did you hear that? The
sound of a dozen bubbles bursting as the other girls figured out what I had already discerned. Life lesson number one, learned at the gym:
if it looks too good to be true, it probably isn't. Mr. High Cholesterol was the only person who contined to stare.: ) Yes, it takes all kinds to make
what our ancestors would think about all this. It used to be
that people toiled from sun up to sun down, constant physical
activity just to grow their food, tend their animals, just to
sustain their lives. The concept of going to a building to
climb on machines that will force us to get exercise for 45
minutes, was an alien concept. That it would be the ONLY significant exercise we might get all day, would be somewhat amusing to them, I would think. Nonetheless, there I am with my Ipod in hand.The Gym Show is always worth
watching. The cast of characters which I encounter every day
is worth the price of admission alone. There is never a lack
of Mr and Mrs. Olympia types there, of course, with their
oiled bodies, sculpted abs, energy drinks and workout clothes
designed to show off the lean, sinewy muscle that they work so
hard to attain. There are just as many fat people working
out, which is good because fat people are the ones who SHOULD
be at the gym, not the skinny ones. (Just like churches.
Shouldn't churches be a haven of sinners, rather than a
museum of saints? I digress.) There is one old lady who I
see there every morning. Cute, cute, cute, in a Betty White sort of way. She is in her early 80's for sure, and every morning she is there at 6 am. She comes dressed to
the nines in stretchy slacks, a cashmere sweater, a lovely
scarf with a jewelled brooch and pearls. I am not making this
up. GodLuv'Er, she works out in freakin' pearls. She needs help
climbing on to the treadmill, but once she is on it, she just
jams. Two machines over poses the Nike Godess. Tall,
beautiful and blond, tanned and toned, I just hate her
gorgeous guts. She has that cute ponytail that sticks out
of the back of her baseball hat and it
and right and left, in rhythm to her run. Her sweat glows and
smells like strawberries 'n cream. Every woman in the place
hates her. Every man in the place is scared of her. Consequently,
there is always an empty machine on either side of her. Would
YOU want to be next to her, invading her aura, being compared
to her? " Not I," said the pig, "not I,"
said the cow, "not I," said the fat, red hen. Contrast that with Mr. High Cholesteral on the machine just in front of me. He scares the hell out of me because I know he is going to have a heart attack right in front of me and I'm going to have to do CPR on his slimy, gelatinous bulk and the thought of my
lips having to force life-saving oxygen into his sweaty, unshaven
face is more than I can bear. Maybe he'll puke up the 8 scrambled eggs and plate of
bacon that he had before working out. Maybe he'll puke it up into
my mouth as I try to save his sorry life. I think about that.
GASP. Somebody shoot me, but there he is, wearing what appears to be
a woolen sweat jacket and long sweat pants and he is walking with the
machine on a steep incline, but he keeps slipping on his own sweat and groaning with each step. I want to speak to him about gastric bypass or methamphetamines, both better alternatives to diet and exercise, if you want my honest opinion. (I'm
not fat enough for gastric bypass and too broke for a drug habit, or else I'd practice what I preach.) In any event, I'm certain that one of these mornings, he is going to die on that machine. I hate watching him, but he is directly in
front of me, so whattygonna do? He does provide some entertainment though because every now and then in true, Real Man fashion, he will pause his machine to rearrange his"package". Now you KNOW what package I'm talking about. He is so overweight that sometimes he really has to fish around for a time to find it, but when he does, herearranges "things" and seems to be so much happier for it. He always looks around to see if anyone is watching
him do it, and of course, EVERYONE is watching him do it. I think that makes his day complete, in a perverse way. There was a new guy at the gym today. I looked up and saw him across the crowded room walking between a row of machines. Fabio, Fabio.
My heart skipped a beat. He was like a Greek God. Time stood still and I watched him stride in slow motion towards me: shoulder length, blond, wavy hair, denim blue eyes, perfect cheekbones, a chisled square jaw. He belonged on the cover of a romance novel and every damsel in that gym was inhaling his testosterone, wanting to have his baby, and sending him with come hither looks . He was too perfect, even here in
Orange County, the land of physical perfection. But I knew as soon as he stepped
into full view, I knew. It was his footwear that gave him away. He
was wearing the latest in avant garde Prada workout shoes. HELLO? RED Prada workout shoes! He was gay as a handbag and I knew it. Gay as 18 red balloons. KAPOWIE, WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!! Did you hear that? The
sound of a dozen bubbles bursting as the other girls figured out what I had already discerned. Life lesson number one, learned at the gym:
if it looks too good to be true, it probably isn't. Mr. High Cholesterol was the only person who contined to stare.: ) Yes, it takes all kinds to make
very "80's". Today she had on a black adidas track suit with mauve satin stripes. Mauve SATIN. I know many people would say that satin, as a fabric, has no place in a sweaty gym environment, but there 'twas. Not that she actually had any intention of actually SWEATING, eewww, yuck, puke. Of course, a mauve t-shirt peeked out from beneath her matching, satin trimmed jacket, and matching black and mauve baseball hat. Did I tell you that she had on cutesy little socks with mauve balls on them, and coordinating NewBalance sneakers. Did I tell you that her bedazzled Ipod cover coordinated ever-so-nicely with her ensemble? Did I tell you that I just described me? I am Miss Matchy Matchy. I'm not proud of it and I swear I"m going to get help for that fashion failing. Soon. Maybe tomorrow, or next week or whatever. So what else is there to do while one is sweating to the oldies, at the gym. Even people watching gets old quickly. I can't stand to watch the girl on the stair stepper ahead of me for one more minute. Whose bright idea was it to put the stair steppers anywhere but in the very back row. Don't they KNOW that we don't want to see gym rats bent over with their stinky butts stuck up in the air as they lean forward climbing the stairs? I don't want to see the line of sweat that goes down the butt crack and shouldn't somebody tell them that you can completely see through spandex? Somebody shoot me, immediately, if not sooner. So I look up and watch tv for a bit. That is not as easy as the Nike Godess over there makes it look. I would have to do too many things at once. I would have to listen to my Ipod, walk with my arms swinging, (ARM singular, I"m a one-armed gimp these days,
remember?) I would have to read the words as they scroll across the screen, AND
let my eyes leave the words on the screen to see what is actually
happening on the tv, all the while trying to not walk off the
end of the treadmill and not bang my injured arm against
the rail. Whoa. All this before 7 am? Nope. So I concentrate on the poster on the wall. It is from a company called "OCsunscreens.com"
and it depicts a piece of mottled, cancerous skin with the phrase, "Squeeze My Freckle" HUH? Squeeze My Freckle? Sorry, I don't get it. I
think about it a while and decide that I should entertain
more worthwhile cerebral pursuits, like should my earrings match my purse or my shoes? WhatEVER. Later, Bitches. I'm off to Lady Foot Locker. They are having a sale on matching workout clothes.
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sorry about the formatting problems. my technology hates me.
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