When I step onto the crosstrainer at the gym, I notice that the guy who was on it before me has sweated all over the thing and left a little pool of his sweat for me to deal with. This is a very large man with hairy shoulders, wearing a singlet and shorts, and arm bands and a head band. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against large hairy men. I also have nothing against sports gear that makes a person look like Richard Simmons gone off the deep end. I have a problem with sweat puddles and guys who consider using a towel an affront to their manly principles.
As soon as it's all cleaned up, and I have been on it for exactly 30 seconds, an annoyingly perky girl in fluorescent orange tights asks me how much longer I'll take. About ten minutes, I say, and she repeats,"Ten minutes?" as if I've just told her that I have permanently glued my feet to this thing and will be taking it home with me, and she will never get on it again. I give her a withering look and she scampers off to join the aerobics class that is in progress.When everyone goes left, she goes right, and when people step on their benches, she steps off, going one-two-jiggle-jiggle, three-four-bounce-bounce, which makes me think- the guys who are devoting their lives to 'engineering' and patenting designs for athletic bras- boy, they need to find something else to do with their lives!
When I head to the weights section, a reed-thin beanpole lifts some dumbbells off the rack and teeters unsteadily, like one of those annoying inflatable dolls that just bounce back when you punch them in the nose. He then puts them down and looks around to see if anyone saw him perform that amazingly macho feat. On catching my eye, he gives me his best 'How you doin'?' look, while I roll my eyes and give him my best 'Yeah, Baby! You're coming home with me tonight (NOT!!!)' look.
Sometimes I wonder why some people bother coming here at all. Like the redhead, whose gym routine consists of talking to the girl at the front desk(8 mins), primping befores she starts her workout(12 mins), dawdling on the treadmill(10 mins), flirting with the trainer and jabbing his arm with her red talons(8 mins), discussing her workout gear and shoes with another woman(5 mins), doing curls with dumbbells that probably weigh less than the paper-weight on my table at work (6mins), doing exactly 3 push-ups before collapsing(1 min), wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead, arms and neck(4 mins), heading to the changing room to primp again before heading home(6 mins). I read somewhere that being chased by a dog down the street can actually burn upto 104 calories (I swear I am not making this up!), and while I'm contemplating a strategy to lure the redhead to my house and have my dog chase her down the street, I have climbed onto the stretching machine and knotted myself into a pretzel. Since I am unable to extricate myself, I am left with no choice but to stare up a guy's shorts as he stretches out on a mat on the floor in front of me with his legs up in the air, and no underwear on, blissfully unaware that his family jewels are on display. At that moment, I'm thinking that if there is a God, then he must be a very cruel one, because if I have to stare up a fella's shorts at his danglers, then can't that guy at least be John Mayer?
As soon as it's all cleaned up, and I have been on it for exactly 30 seconds, an annoyingly perky girl in fluorescent orange tights asks me how much longer I'll take. About ten minutes, I say, and she repeats,"Ten minutes?" as if I've just told her that I have permanently glued my feet to this thing and will be taking it home with me, and she will never get on it again. I give her a withering look and she scampers off to join the aerobics class that is in progress.When everyone goes left, she goes right, and when people step on their benches, she steps off, going one-two-jiggle-jiggle, three-four-bounce-bounce, which makes me think- the guys who are devoting their lives to 'engineering' and patenting designs for athletic bras- boy, they need to find something else to do with their lives!
When I head to the weights section, a reed-thin beanpole lifts some dumbbells off the rack and teeters unsteadily, like one of those annoying inflatable dolls that just bounce back when you punch them in the nose. He then puts them down and looks around to see if anyone saw him perform that amazingly macho feat. On catching my eye, he gives me his best 'How you doin'?' look, while I roll my eyes and give him my best 'Yeah, Baby! You're coming home with me tonight (NOT!!!)' look.
Sometimes I wonder why some people bother coming here at all. Like the redhead, whose gym routine consists of talking to the girl at the front desk(8 mins), primping befores she starts her workout(12 mins), dawdling on the treadmill(10 mins), flirting with the trainer and jabbing his arm with her red talons(8 mins), discussing her workout gear and shoes with another woman(5 mins), doing curls with dumbbells that probably weigh less than the paper-weight on my table at work (6mins), doing exactly 3 push-ups before collapsing(1 min), wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead, arms and neck(4 mins), heading to the changing room to primp again before heading home(6 mins). I read somewhere that being chased by a dog down the street can actually burn upto 104 calories (I swear I am not making this up!), and while I'm contemplating a strategy to lure the redhead to my house and have my dog chase her down the street, I have climbed onto the stretching machine and knotted myself into a pretzel. Since I am unable to extricate myself, I am left with no choice but to stare up a guy's shorts as he stretches out on a mat on the floor in front of me with his legs up in the air, and no underwear on, blissfully unaware that his family jewels are on display. At that moment, I'm thinking that if there is a God, then he must be a very cruel one, because if I have to stare up a fella's shorts at his danglers, then can't that guy at least be John Mayer?
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