Style Points - Working Out Blahg #2

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.

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.

Save Money! Or Get Arrested Trying.

There’s a blog I occasionally read to make me feel bad about how I manage my money. It’s called The Simple Dollar and the guy who writes it is a machine. I had to unsubscribe from his mailing list because I would get at least two emails a day from him, both blogs he had written that day. He’s unstoppable and it makes me want to punch him and the ‘94 Plymouth Grand Voyager he got a great deal on. 

 
In honor of him and so many who have fallen on hard times, I thought I’d take a crack at a “money tips” blog. So here they are, 10 money saving tips that have helped me, an economically reckless yet occasionally pennywise bachelor who just so happens to find himself unemployed:

Tip #10: Stick around until the end of parties and look really cute and hungry and don’t kill anyone so they’ll give you the leftovers. Also, “forget” to give the Tupperware back.

Tip #9: Sleep a lot. The more you sleep the more you don’t have time to do stuff that would require spending money. “Hey do you want to go to a movie? Hey. Hey! Wake the fuck up! I want to go to a movie with you but you’re always fucking sleeping!” Leave a message at the pillow. Pillow!

Tip #8: Limit your diet to three meals, not per day, but for always. When there’s a rumbly in my tumbly I have a choice between: 1) a Turkey Sandwich 2) a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich and 3) A bowl or four of plain Cheerios with rice milk. I realize what you’re thinking: “Hey douche Satan, Rice Milk is gross and it costs over $3 for a half gallon. How is that economical?” First of all, thank you for getting my name right. Not many people take the time to—FUCK YOU! Second, I have a slight allergen to real milk and soymilk makes me gassy, so I don’t have much of a choice. Dude.

Tip #7: Cut out food from your diet that could be considered a luxury. Food like: cheese for your sandwich, lettuce for your sandwich, pickles, mayonnaise, and fresh bread for your sandwich, fruit or sugar to make the Cheerios a little less bland. Eliminate all essential nutrients and vitamins. Basically if it’s not bread, turkey, peanut butter, jelly, cheerios and rice milk, cut it out of your diet. You’ll save both money and time and time is money unless you’re unemployed like me. Then time is just something you divide into two categories: when to sleep (see #9) and when to masturbate.

Tip #6: FIX IT YOURSELF! Got a broken side mirror? Gorilla Glue + duct tape + cardboard = you looking like white trash driving your Buick around town because the glue dripped down the door and won’t come off no matter how hard you try so then you just covered it with black tape because you’re sick of getting strange looks. But that Goddamn side mirror won’t budge and Goddamn it you saved money!

Tip #5: Barter for everything. It never hurts to ask for a better price. For instance, I was at the check out in the grocery store one time. The overly pierced and totally rad cashier told me the price. I said, “Really? Really? That’s the price?” He laughed, pressed some buttons on his button pad and poof, my price dropped $2. It shocked me flaccid. Another: If you’re at a thrift store find something wrong with the item you’re purchasing. It could be a slight tear or a small stain. Whatever it is, once you point it out to them they’ll usually knock off a few dollars. “But that money usually goes to a charitable cause.” Are you reading this fucking blahg entry? I am a charitable cause. Last one: I was bartering with this homeless woman for her sleeping pad. I said “How about I give you $12 for it.” She scoffed at my offer and continued to snore. “Alright, how about $7 and don’t say anything if we got a deal.” What a steal! 

Tip #4: Get a good friend to cut your hair. This will save you at least $14 a month. My stylist has made a few appearances in this here blahg under the names of HotMom72 & Mr. Superdumbface. In this entry I shall call him Barf. I cherish the moments I have with Barf in the bathroom where he cuts my hair and I his. Granted, Barf is quite good at hitting most of the spots on his head and only needs me to look it over and clean it up here and there.

Tip #3: Put off things that you probably shouldn’t. Like taxes and preventative medicine and fixing the grinding sound your back brakes are making.

Tip #2: Don’t make a first date a dinner date. Tis a bad idea for a couple of reasons. 1) She/He may be so dumb that she/he takes you to an extremely expensive restaurant. 2) What if she/he is the super suck and you have to spend an entire meal with them? Also dumb. Instead, pick something fun and cheap to do like having her/him pick you up because your car is in the shop and then going on a multi-stop “adventure.” Possible Stop #1: The library where the two of you can take a romantic romp through the stacks of books so you can drop off your overdue copy of “Santa With Muscles.” Stop #2: That sweet little café so you can look for cheap housing on the community board. Stop #3: Head over to your mechanic’s shop so you can fulfill that fantasy of banging a first date in the back of your Buick. “Come on baby, it’s a Regal LIMITED.”

And my #1 Money Saving Tip: When a friend says they have a barely-used bed that they’d like to get rid of because it’s super uncomfortable, take it and sleep the shit out of it. Clarification: there is no shit in my bed nor have I ever shit the bed. It was just an expression so please refrain from sending mean emails. I have feelings. Just not in my lower back where the springs poke through.

Did you NOT enjoy this blahg? Then pass it along to your enemies while Mr. Burnsing your fingers. But if I managed to squeak a giggle out of your whore-shut mouth, then pass it along to your friends.

The Money Pit - Notable Online Dating Story #1

Looking back, there were so many red flags, but because of her profile photos I ignored them all. She was beautiful and she was in to me, even after I told her I had just lost my job. So how could I turn down a date? 

For anonymity reasons, and because I think it’s funny, I will call her “Her.” Her and I had been corresponding via Match.com emails for about a week and a half. For those of you who don’t know my online dating email strategy (everyone), I usually allow at least a full day, sometimes two, to pass before I respond to a message. Not Her. No, Her’s tactic was to respond no more than 10 minutes after reading one of my incredibly witty and sexified messages. I can’t blame her, but Her’s behavior was weirding me out a bit. 

But alas, I pushed through the flag in my quest for love. After a hint from her end, I sent Her my number on a Thursday night. Ten minutes later my phone started ringing.

“Who the fuck is this?” I asked aloud while examining the foreign, out-of-state number. For those of you (everyone) who don’t know my policy on answering phone numbers I don’t recognize, I answer every call that comes my way for a couple of reasons. 1) Some of the most meaningful conversations I’ve ever had are with strangers who’ve dialed the wrong number. Here’s one that came to me not once, but twice in the span of five months:

“S Bill thur,” asks a completely intoxicated man.

“No, this is not Bill’s number anymore. This is ----.”

“Huly shit, my name is ----. Anywah, if ya need anything, and I mean ANYTHING, gi mea call.”

“Thanks ----. Have a good night.”

And the second reason I answer every call is because I’m so, so lonely. Sometimes it’s nice to have an unsuspecting caller’s shoulder to cry on. Trust me, they’ll never call again after hearing me blubber on for two hours about the cancellation of Arrested Development.

 

So when I saw a number starting with 315 on my Blackberry, I answered it. It was Her and Her was calling me because Her doesn’t do txt messaging. She was driving home from a friend’s place, read my message, giggled at my witty prose and gave me a call. I was taken completely off guard and needed time to mentally prepare myself so I sifted through a few options to stall. I’m masturbating? No.  I’m watching the Twins game? No. I’m masturbating to the Twins game? Maybe. Instead I asked her if she wanted to give me a call once she wasn’t driving anymore. Her seemed offended because Her is from New York so Her can drive and talk at the same time. Anyway, we scheduled our date for the following Tuesday night. I said I’d call her on Sunday to finalize the plans.

Friday night: got drunk and high in LoDo (Lower Downtown Denver). Slept in my Car.

Saturday night: got drunk and high in LoDo at a Reggae concert. Left my car and got a ride back with a friend.

Sunday: Got my car and some advice from a good friend on where to take Her and then called Her completely hungover.

“Well I definitely want to take you dancing. There’s this amazing jazz club in LoDo called El Chapultepec. Have you ever been?” She hasn’t, but has heard of it. 

“And for dinner how about we go to Biker Jim’s? It’s a gourmet hot dog place that is supposed to be awesome.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” she says coldly, as if I’m supposed to know that. I rack my fragile memory for that specific detail in her profile but come up empty.

Floundering, I hear my friend in the background say “Watercourse,” a great vegetarian place in Denver. I suggest it.

“Well, Watercourse is really nowhere near El Chapultepec, so why don’t I pick a place to eat since you picked what we’re going to do afterward?”

I think this is a brilliant idea mostly because I don’t want to anxiety vomit all over my phone.

Seven minutes after hanging up she txts that she’s made reservations at Rioja for 8:00pm. “Let’s meet for a drink at 7:30,” she includes. “Sound good?” My initial reaction is a small panic tremor set off by the word “reservations.” It’s probably one of those places that’s so inexpensive and hip there’s a wait unless you make reservations, I tell myself. Yeah, that’s it.

That’s not it.

I show up at 7:30 and walk into the place. Dollar signs are all over the walls, the floors, the faces of the wait staff, the bartender, even the fucking napkins are screaming expensive.

Fuck.

I don’t see anyone wearing tennis shoes with tube socks and khaki shorts with a striped, short sleeve polo circa 1977, but I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and remember that's what I’m wearing. I guess what I should be wearing is a pair of black shoes, slacks, and a light sport coat, or something else that would prompt a swift, self ass kicking.

She strolls in wearing a loose red blouse, some jeans that sparkle, and heels. She has one of those huge silver bracelets around her wrists, you know, the ones that make a proper handjob awkward. But seriously, I remind myself, HJs are already awkward and completely pointless. She’s a beautiful woman with brown eyes, brown hair and a body that instantly makes me a sinner. We grab a drink, me a beer and her a champagne + edible flower concoction. The drink’s name escapes me because I’m reeling from the price. Two drinks = $17 + $2 tip = $19.

But she’s gorgeous. She has a great smile and a better laugh and I really want to bang her in the back of my Buick (once I remove the unrolled yoga mat I used for a pillow on both Friday and Sunday nights).

We sit down at our table. The waiter comes over and describes the special with such passion that it makes you want to order 10 of them. I open the menu and find exactly what I’m expecting, barely an entrée under $25.

Oh, that salad is only $9.50, maybe I’ll get one of those.

“Do you want to share a salad,” Her asks.

Maybe Her’s not a money pit after all, I think before realizing she means in addition to her main course.

“Sure,” I say a little too enthusiastically.

We place our order. As the waiter walks away she says I could’ve ordered something with meat in it. “That’s actually what I wanted,” I lie. Believe me, I would’ve ordered meat if I could have afforded it.

We resume our conversation. It’s good conversation and I’m enjoying myself through the fog that always envelops someone who’s going bankrupt.

The salad arrives and it’s literally two bites worth of carefully sliced vegetables delicately draped over one another with Jackson Pollock splashes of dressing. I now realize why it’s only $9.50. We have a glass of wine before the main course comes and when it does I’m not surprised to see only a handful of Tortelloni on my plate.

As we eat I tell Her that she’s a beautiful woman. “Well you’re a beautiful man.”’ I laugh because I’ve never heard anyone say that to me and because it sounds like an insincere, tennis-volley compliment. “I mean it,” Her says. “You have a great smile.” I smile and say, “Well I practice a lot.” She seems disappointed that I don’t hit a compliment back about her smile. We talk about our history with online dating. I tell her that she’s my 6^th date, that I wasn’t really feeling it with three, and then two told me to call them to set up a 2^nd date but never returned my call. I say that irritates me. “So you’d rather a woman be honest,” Her asks. “Definitely,” I say. “It would save me the time and disappointment.” She agrees.

We request the check from our passion-bleeding waiter and he waddles over to retrieve it. “We’re gonna split the bill because I’m not sure if you got the memo, but I’m unemployed,” I say knowing full well that she did get that memo yet decided a four-and-a-half-star restaurant was a good, first-date idea (but hey, at least their “free” bread was rated the best in Denver).

“O.K.” she says neither disappointed nor delighted.

Half of the bill, including tip = $52.43.

Fuck me.

SPOILER ALERT: She didn’t.

We scoot over to a vodka bar called “Red Square” for a quick shot of strawberry vodka. She buys while implying a second date, something she’s been implying all night.

At one of the corners we say goodbye. I tell Her I had a good time, which is mostly true, and that we should hang out again. Her agrees and tells me to call her. I give Her a hug and go in for a kiss on the lips. She turns her head and I peck her cheek, thinking she turned because of the real cough she’s been sporting all night, which is why we’re not going dancing. I walk to my car with a mixed taste in my mouth. Vodka? Maybe. Mediocre pasta? Possibly. Hope? Relief? I’m not sure. 

For those of you who still have a boner for math, the grand total for the entire date looks like this: parking + alcohol and tips + Her’s dinner bill and tip (assuming she gave 15%) + my dinner bill and tip + sales tax = $132.87. What I paid (and I didn’t even get a useless HJ out of it): $73.18.

Blinded by her beauty and by my naïve “maybe she’ll be better on the 2^nd date” attitude, I call her a couple of days later and leave a message.

It’s been exactly two weeks since that date and she hasn’t called back.

And thank fucking God.