Tag Archives: gym

Who’s the boss?

What’s this? Another gym-related post? You betcha. Enjoy the ride, my precious blueberries.

As I think I may have said, when you go to the gym at a fairly regular time, you notice the people who are generally there the same time as you (this can sometimes lead to some awkward social interactions when you see this people outside of the gym. Do I say hi? I mean, we’ve spent time sweating and panting near each other. There’s a sort of intimacy in that. But I digress). Well, starting about a month ago, this teenaged kid started coming around the same time I do.

The kid looks exactly like my boss. Like exactly.

Younger, yes. Shorter, yes. Pimplier, yes. Also decidedly less buff. But it’s definitely his doppleganger. Down to the curve of the lip and the haircut. If I ever heard him speak, I bet he’d say the word “bro” a lot. That’s how alike they are.

Usually he comes in after I have already starting doing my thang. So I watch him from afar as he fiddles with weight-lifting machines. Not creepily watch, mind, just an occasional curiosity-filled glance

But the other day we came in at the same time. It was the strangest thing; I held the door open for him. My eyes were sheepishly downcast. I patiently waited for him to put his stuff in the cubbyhole before I did. Weird stuff, and it probably speaks a lot about my work dynamic, which I guess I should re-evaluate at another time. Anyway, he noticed my deference and I think I think I was, like, awkwardly hitting on him.

Another successful interaction with a man!

 


The worst kind of toe cleavage

Tonight I was at the gym minding my own business while keeping up a steady pace to Mulan’s “Be A Man” song, when I noticed a particularly handsome fellow.

Since this is an anomalous sighting for my gym at the time I usually attend, I was a little caught off guard. But pleased. Of course pleased.

So I do the standard check-out. I look at his face: nice. I look at his body: oh, very nice. And then I look at his feet. AND I SEE THESE:

A monstrosity of a shoe if there ever was one.

And just like that, my mind-lust turned to mind-mockery. Yo, I don’t CARE if they’re better for you–the barefoot movement is one thing if you’re playing beach volleyball, but keep your nerdy little feet-shaped shoes out of my eye-line.

Yes, I realize a lot of this vitriol has to do with my foot phobia. Why do you ask?

Why, hot gym guy? Why did you do this to me? I can’t ogle you after this! All I wanted to do was objectify someone at the gym, and now I can’t even do that. Thank you.


You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry

Okay, so I want to have a ranty time, and there is no better place than (semi)anonymously on a blog. Am I right, ladies?

Anywhodalidoodle…

At my gym there are two fancy cross-trainy machines with televisions attached (remember this part for later). Thus thing is basically the devil child of a stair master and an elliptical. It’s the best. When I’m done on that thing, I look like I just came out of a pool. It’s disgusting and awesome. My shirt looks like the Shroud of Turin, but instead of the face of Jesus, it’s my back sweat. Enjoy that word picture.

The point here is that there are only two of these. Now when I go in the gym and I see two other people working out on these things, I seethe for minute, and go about my business elsewhere. Like an adult. That’s what adults do.

But there’s this woman THIS WOMAN who goes to one of the machines, plugs in her head phones and just STANDS THERE watching Judge Joe Brown. Literally just stands there. Stands there watching the little TV with a face like a cow in a pasture. Who watches Judge Joe Brown anyway? Who wastes their time in this manner?

Sometimes, when the other one is empty, I hop on that one and work out like a madwoman. Sometimes I give her little passing looks, as if to say “This is how it’s done, woman!” But she doesn’t get that message. She doesn’t care about my message at all.

But today the other machine was taken, and I had to slink away angrily to another, lesser torture device. I mean, Jesus. If you’re going to force me to work out on a pansy machine, at least do me the honor of pretending to work out. Having a Big Gulp Coke in the water bottle holder is not pretending. That just makes me angrier. And it’s not the good kind of rage that makes you work out harder for longer; it’s weird rage bursts coupled with the dull ache of disgust. I think it gives me heart burn.

So then I start to have the fantasies. I want to follow her out to her car. I want to go up to her all friendly-like and say, “I think you forgot something!” I want to watch her face as she reasons, “How could I have forgotten anything? My headphones and big gulp drink are in my hands!” And then, as she realizes that I must be mistaken, I want to punch her in the face. Tae Bo style, since it’s a gym after all. And then I want to say some sort of witty quip like, “Don’t sweat it.” But not that; something funny instead.

Obviously there is a lot of misplaced anger here that I need to work out (pun originally not intended, but let’s pretend it was). Maybe I’m just pissed because I wasn’t drenched in sweat when I left the gym today. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t watch TMZ while becoming drenched in sweat. All I can promise is that if that woman is there next time I go to the gym I will…continue to stare at her angrily.