If you’re anything like me, then the only reason you shower at the gym is so that your junk doesn’t look so small.
Yup, you guessed it (and I certainly hope you would considering the title): another blahg entry about working out. Here’s the first incase you just recently learned how to read.
I still workout. A lot. And my hard work has been rewarded in a couple of ways: by dropping a few pounds and getting to drink up all the interesting characters I act like I’m not watching through the many wall mirrors. In this here entry I will point out two more of those cherry characters. But I’m not going to pretend I am the most coordinated, white-hot-sexy worker outer that has ever pranced through 24 Hour Fitness. That’s why I will end with two stories of my workout ridiculousness. One of said stories is a favorite of a good friend of mine here in CO who’s leaving the state for Blah School. Love you much, lady. You will be missed.
The WoMan in the Mirror
She’s beautiful and she knows it. That’s why every time she decides to burn off her insecurities she chooses the treadmill directly in front of the mirror. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she’s a bombshell blonde who can’t stop looking at herself. Every single time I have seen her working out, which is around 10 times because I’m in there a lot, she’s stationed in front of the 12’x8’ locked on to her own gaze while it hops up and down. Now, I’m not ashamed to admit that I also like to look at myself while I work out. Why do you think I’ve taken so many aerobics classes? For the mirrors! (Side note: that video starts getting really, really good at around 1:00.) But seriously, why do you need to look at yourself every time you work out for the entire time that you work out? If it was me and all I did was stare into the mirror at myself, I’d start to feel uncomfortable. “Who the fuck is that creeper?” I’d ask and I'd most likely complain to the staff about me. “No one should sweat that much in here. Seriously, can you talk to him?”
The StairMaster Pastor
“Hey guy on the StairMaster talking on your cell phone! I have never wished death by mechanic trample on someone so much. Oh it was your mother? I’m sorry, I’m just having a really hard time paying attention to myself in the mirror with you yammering away.” Yes said guy was on his cell phone. And I realize no one is paying attention anyway because they're all iPod zombies, but I'm sincerely concerned for your safety. At least get a hands-free device. Oh, and no he wasn’t actually a pastor. It’s just that the thought of a pastor in full God-garb on a StairMaster made me smile. Plus, it’s quite possibly the best rhyme I’ve ever come up with and would make a great character in a book or a movie: the pastor who’s so busy spreading the "good news" he doesn’t have time to work out so he gives his Sunday sermons from a StairMaster. The StairMaster Pastor.
Remember: burn your gray workout shirts
But hey, let's get real for a minute. This blahg is about me so lets turn the spotlight back around.
A couple of months ago I was pounding the stationary bike, working up a solid sweat and watching the tube above my head, most likely something quality like a rerun of BJ & The Bear.
I was 10 minutes into my bike ride, and probably 45 minutes into my cardio session (I get a little crazy with the cardio, sometimes working out for two hours). At any rate, I had my mind set to work out for at least another 30 minutes. Until I looked in the mirror.
When I began my work out I was wearing a light gray shirt, but when I looked at my reflection I didn’t see that. What I saw was a dark gray shirt, one that was completely saturated with sweat. And it was heavy. A little self-conscious, I casually hopped off the bike and meandered over to a full-sized mirror for a better look. I did my little turn and realized not a single inch of that shirt was dry.
Now I’m telling you, I’ve been working out, hard, for around 8 months now, multiple times a week, and I know I sweat a lot and that's not a big deal. People come to a gym to work out when you work out you sweat. But I try to keep it to myself that I sweat more than your average person. On that day it was impossible to avoid letting everyone know my secret.
And I’m not someone who gets embarrassed easily at the gym (as you will see in my next story). I don’t wear designer work out clothes. In fact you can typically find a stain on everything I wear to the gym. And further more Susan, I’m not someone who needs to look sane while I work out. I’m usually in my own world, mouthing along to my tunes and occasionally hitting that invisible crash symbol. The point is this: it takes a lot for me to feel bad about myself at the gym.
And I’m not someone who gets embarrassed easily at the gym (as you will see in my next story). I don’t wear designer work out clothes. In fact you can typically find a stain on everything I wear to the gym. And further more Susan, I’m not someone who needs to look sane while I work out. I’m usually in my own world, mouthing along to my tunes and occasionally hitting that invisible crash symbol. The point is this: it takes a lot for me to feel bad about myself at the gym.
But on that day, with my shirt being suffocated by sweat, I was horrified. I needed to get out of there and quickly! People can’t see me like this, I told myself as if I was bringing shame to the family name (impossible, by the way). I can’t even remember if I wiped down the bike I was using before I scuttled into the locker room. At any rate, I ended my workout a good half an hour early because I was terribly embarrassed by my liberal sweat glands. The walk out was also painful knowing the thoughts springing through the heads of my fellow gym rats. Thoughts like “there goes ol’ sweaty buckets” or “I’m not sure he’s actually human. I think he’s a robot that captures moisture from the air and expels it into his clothes.”
By the way, I would actually love to meet someone who thinks like that because I feel we could have a conversation or two. Right?! I mean who uses the word “expel”?
So that’s why I don’t wear gray T-Shirts in the gym anymore. Or green ones. Or blue or purple ones. Or any color other than black or white. Yup. Just black and white.
Style Points
And now for my closing story (and I hope I can do KP justice because she tells it way better than I ever did, even though I was there and she wasn’t).
I barrel the Buick into the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot and find a space. The clock reads 8:51 when I silence the bitchin’ song I was rocking out to.
I step out of Rainbow (remember, my car’s name is Rainbow Satan). It’s night so I’m hoping for a nice and empty gym to work out in. As I open the back door to grab my gym bag I remember I forgot to bring my workout shoes. No worries, I’ll just wear what I have on. I look down and see this:
Yes those are slippers over my tube socks and yes the parking lot of 24 Hour Fitness is carpeted.
Anyway, as you’ve read above, stuff like this doesn’t really phase me. So literally the thought that pops into my head is “Well, I guess the treadmill is out of the question.” I’m devastated because the treadmill is my most beloved piece of workout machinery. False. Fuck treadmills.
I check in at the front desk and weave my way into the locker room. Another amazing revelation dawns on me as I open my bag: I brought the tight shorts. Seriously? First the slippers, and now the tight shorts? To describe them (and I wish I still had them so I could show you how gold they were) they were Adidas shorts, burgundy with two teal stripes down the sides, and not only were they tighter than any shorts should ever be, they were short, resting at least 4 inches above the knee. I purchased them at a thrift store thinking, Yeah, once I lose a little weight these bitchin' shorts will fit great. Yeah. Bitchin'. Well now that I have lost that weight, I suspect two things: 1) I have abnormally large quads and 2) I'm pretty sure those shorts belonged in the boys section.
Well at least it’s nighttime and there’s barely anyone here who may be tempted to write about me on their blog, I didn’t think. What I did think is more along the lines of, Fuck it. Let’s do this.
So I went out there, into the cardio area, and I rocked that elliptical like no other human (or robot) has ever rocked it. My arms jutted back and forth like I was one of the “Rock ‘em Sock ‘em” guys. I was chugging along, bouncing up and down, pushing my body to the limits, mouthing the words to my shitty pop punk music, probably doing a few drum fills, all while sporting my slippers and tube socks and tight shorts and not giving a flying fuck who or what (another robot?) was looking at me. I’m not going to let ridiculous looking gym attire ruin my caloric burning experience. Not the type of guy I am.
Did you enjoy this blahg post? Really?! That’s so nice of you to say. You know, I’m gonna write that in my “bad day” blahg so any time I’m having a bad day I can go look at it to cheer me up. Where was I? Oh yeah, if you enjoyed the above, pass it along to your friends so they can know that you know some guy who writes and stuff.
