I went to the gym this week. Like the week before. And the week before. I've discovered, much to my delight, that the upstairs portion of the gym is almost always empty, and I can run from machine to machine in manic delight at the sheer available-ness of it all. So this week I was upstairs, pouring salty beads of sweat, and doing my best guppy fish impression while drinking from my water bottle.
And in comes someone to ruin my lovely I'm-all-by-myself Zen mode. The fella plops down on the floor and starts doing those crazy pushups you perform with 2 fingers or something. I'd never try that - they'd snap off in protest. So I'm chillin', doing my StairMaster, glancing at the clock every 2 seconds to see if I've progressed beyond my current 3 minutes of a rather lame-ass sissy workout.
And reading, of course. Every so often, I raid the Bargain section of the local Borders or Barnes and Nobles, looking for something that looks completely unintelligent and has someone being killed or stabbed or stalked or farted on. Hey, I can only concentrate so much while bicycling vigorously and swatting my tendrils of nosy hair back in place. I need brain-dead material to entertain me. Otherwise I will grow to hate the gym, and I will balloon up into an ungainly and rather unattractive 300 pounds.
So I'm reading, and stepping, and swatting hair, and drinking water. And sneaking little glances at my workout "buddy", rather jealous that he's lifting 100 pound weights in each hand like they're sticks of butter. And then I notice something that boggles my mind to this minute: my buddy is glancing at me, smiling that "you're kinda cute, do you think I'm cute too" smile, and winking every so often. I'm absolutely flabbergasted.
Now, perhaps I should explain. I understand, and have been told by some people, that I'm somewhat attractive. And this usually happens when I'm wearing the most expensive dress I own, the tallest shoes in my closet, and a bit of makeup. I've looked at myself in the morning after getting out of bed, and let me tell you, the sight is not pretty. Now, I'm one of those people that will get dressed up for everything - I'll wear a dress to go shopping for groceries. But the one thing I absolutely refuse to dress up for is the gym. In fact, I have subconsciously made it my utmost priority to look my absolute worst when I go the gym. Probably because my gym clothes look like they were made in the 70s, and I'm sweating like a pig.
So, back to the story, I'm puzzled that this fella is making ogley-eyes at me. Me, the girl in the old sweatpants and faded ugly t-shirt. The girl who's hair is pinned up, but looks strikingly similar to a volcano that's about to erupt. The girl who's face is as red as a tomato - no, make that an eggplant. Yes, I was purple from exhaustion. The man must be going delusional from all those 2-finger pushups. Or those He-Man weights. Or maybe he's crazy. Scenes from Psycho and the music from Jaws pop into my head and I grab my little towel, draping it over my shoulder like a mini-shield, and make a dash for the stairs. Once safely in my car, I realized perhaps he just has a fetish for eggplants in ugly sweats. That's probably it.
And since I wrote nothing about the pug in this entry, I shall let you all know: he's safe, he's snoring, and he's still the spawn of Satan.
2 years ago