The Gym – Always a Story

My goal is to get to the gym four times a week.

When I successfully wrangle my butt out from under the soft and cozy blankets….stumble over the pets to make a cup of coffee….blindly throw on my gym gear…..put my hair up in two pig tails and manage to make it INTO the gym….I give myself a pat on the back, a kiss on the hand and a red star on the calendar.

No, really I do.

Kiss my hand, that is.

If I’m going to spend the wee hours of the morning sweating it out with some of  Juneau’s most interesting residents… then by god someone should be kissing me for the effort.   I’m not referring to the overly furry man with the pony tail and tat-sleeves I see every morning.  Either shave that thing, knit it into a sweater or cover it up – good god man!

Of course getting stars on the calendar is quite the bonus too.   It’s a mental thing.

Yeah me!

Without a doubt, it goes back to my second grade days when Mrs. Boyer would give out stars to the best kids in class at the end of the day.  Yes, please.  Don’t I deserve TWO?  Me, suck up?  Never.  Don’t know what that even means.  Now give me the stars!

Each student received a little handmade book at the start of the school year to collect stars.  My booklet had a gray wallpaper cover.

The two most sought after treats were either getting your face painted during recess or saving up 100 stars.  What did you get for 100 stars?  The best thing ever!

Mrs. Boyer would bring her Collie into school for the whole day.

Okay, I know you were thinking the best thing ever is really an endless vodka iv drip.  Followed by daily  massages by some hunky, half-clothed, man of your choice on a white sand beach.  Better yet, can I have the vodka iv drip while getting the massage from Mr. Bare Chested Sexy Guy?

Funny the things you remember.

That’s why I love my red stars.

When I go to the gym, I’m focused.  I’m not there to be seen.  I’m not there to walk on the treadmill and gossip with friends.  I’m not there to check into a social club.  I really don’t give a flying flip if my exercise pants don’t match my tank top or socks.   I’m there to sweat, lift weights, climb stairs, push weights, sweat, circulate on the elliptical, pull weights, work, sing along to the songs on my iPod and ponder how to solve the world’s problems.

Duh.

Yes, it’s true.  I’ve ignore people I know at the gym.  Thank you tunnel vision.  Honest, it’s not on purpose.  (Okay, I admit, sometimes it is.)   If you cross through my line of sight of course  I will acknowledge you – I’m not rude!  However, if you’re on a treadmill six down and across the room from me, don’t expect me to wave my hands in the air.  I am certainly not going to rush over to inquire how your previous night was.

News flash:  I don’t care.  I am there to work.  Get in.  Get out.

Some of the members of my gym are aliens.  There’s the crazy guy who I swear is going to seriously injure himself on the weight machines.  He’s creepy and he’s dangerous.  Not a good combination.   Above all he drives me absolutely nuts with how he does things. There was the woman who was insistent on providing me full frontal disclosure – awkward.  Just put that away, I’m not interested in your ya-ya.

However, this week, I’ve encountered something completely different and I can’t figure out what the advantage would be for this guy.

The only logical conclusion in my mind:  this guy thought he was in a low-budget porno.

Imagine this scenario:  I’m using a flat bench to do flyes and presses.  A guy comes over – not in the best shape.  Older.  The dumb bell racks are lining the wall in front of me – by my feet.  He walks up and selects one weight – at about 30 pounds.

This puts him about 6 feet away from me.  Immediately to my right.

Holding just one weight.

In his right hand.

Curls commence.

Fine.

Then the weirdness starts.  Sound the appropriate alarm here…

He raises his left leg and puts his left foot up on the rack at a 90 degree bend – sort of.

His foot is on the rack.  Kinda like he’s stretching?  Really?

Did I mention he’s wearing shorts?

Now what is this about?

I’m still perplexed.  Weirdo.  I finish my bench exercises and realize he’s conveniently parked himself where my weights need to be returned.

Stretch….one….bend….two….bend….three….bend.

Really?

I put my weights down next to my bench and decide to walk through the gym for a minute – you know to cool off.  I return a couple of minutes later.  Now he’s attracted a friend.  Both of them are now blocking the rack.  You’ll be glad to know, he’s switched legs.

Bend….one….bend….two…bend…three.

It’s just too early for this kind of stuff.  I’ve only had one cup of coffee.  I’ve just sweated myself silly for an hour.  My chest feels like silly putty and now you want to block my way?

Grabbing my weights, I throw my shoulders back and walk straight up to the guy – nearly hip checking him on the approach.  EXCUSE ME – and slam the weights into their holder.  He obviously thought I was impressed with his pale, fleshy thigh as he gave me a big grin…bend…one…bend…two.

Really?

Freak.

Don’t make me say sorry.

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