Just a warning, I'm going to bitch for a moment about some housewife problems. If you were looking for a story about the Russian evacuation from Syria, click on over to your smart blogs because this mama has an itch in her britch about the health club. Roll up your yoga mat, we're going in!
I've belonged to many places to work out - big places with hair salons and cafes, little sweaty places with three mirrors and dedicated meat heads. I've run the gamut. Its not like I'm fit anyway. I'm one of those people with big goals, but really I'll only stay on a treadmill until Dr. Phil starts pimping his stupid books and then I get bored reading closed captioning and go eat. I may not be Jillian Michaels over here, but I can say with certainty the place I joined in November is not special in its grossness. As a matter of fact, I like my health club. My favorite part is dropping the kids off at the childcare center and sinking into a sperm-filled hot tub. I love it! I love most of it! Here are the things I didn't love yesterday, a bank holiday in January.
1. High school mean girls in matching shoes. I don't usually see teenagers in their natural habitat. I avoid malls and employ grandma babysitters. I shop at old lady places. I generally hang on the toddler scene. It was MLK day, so school was out which meant perfect specimens of 12th grade humanity were bored at their parents' 4500 s.f. north shore homes and decided to grace the gym scene. THE LOUD TALKING. The immovable herds of personified entitlement! The assumption they are the stars of some imaginary reality series and the flabby, droopy naked ladies in the locker room give some sort of eff about so-and-so totally giving a burn to some other so-and-so. Fallacy in teenage thinking: all the old people around you have always been old. It's a grand testiment to the ego of a teenager that everyone within earshot gives a rat's how you rejected some schmuck by the lockers. News: A) You may be hot compared to the geriatric, post-birth bodies around you, but ya ain't a big deal compared to us in our heydays. B) The polite thing to do when someone passes you is to break up your impromptu improv show by the doors and let the fat mamas pass. Thanks.
2. High pressure gym recruiters who wear ear pieces like some kind of secret service agent. My guy was nice. He was like a performance waiter who writes his personal struggle into the sales script so you feel sorry for him AND see the nine-point benefits of membership at this club. I can't say our time together was terrible until he communicated into his Google Glasses that someone needed to take me away immediately and measure my fat rolls with calipers because it was that pressing of a matter. Offense? Taken.
3. Abandoned razors in the shower. Today was a high traffic day in the gym, so naturally the showers were experiencing "better"-than-normal business. Perhaps the nastiest thing to see in a public shower besides period blood and non-organic body wash is a razor of mysterious origin. There it was. On the shelf in my shower. It was a small, but deadly and surely disease-ridden object ripe for a hazmat crew and it was INCHES away from my face. Inches! I've told my husband he should reconsider eating after me (especially cake, cake is delicious) until I've been throughly deloused. Also, I might need a trip to the Target Starbucks alone to soothe my nerves.
4. Sad, Chatty Stairmaster Lady. There's a reason why there are 58 treadmills at the gym and four stair machines. It's because stair machines are for people who hate themselves. Naturally, I climbed aboard. I was just settling into my suffering with the concentration usually reserved for labor when I hear a wheezy, thirsty voice coming from the machine next door. "I'm going to buy this dress when I get my body back," she nodded toward a gossip magazine. Oh. Um. Yay! "It's the food. Eat no fat. Eat only protein. Every night I have a bowl of egg whites microwaved with spinach and protein powder." Her eyes were sunken and dark, she was leaning on the rails to support her upper body with the desperation of a soul lost in the desert for weeks. She was emaciated and scary and lonely and probably needed some kind of therapy or friend or milkshake, but I did the weak thing and I got the hell off of there and hit the pool.
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