Tag Archives: body hair

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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Camel Toe, The New Fashion Accessory

Seriously?
I don’t want to see it.
But in the Miami sweatshine, I mean sunshine….when the girl is wearing shiny silver shorts, like a roller derby champion, although she’s not one, the camel toe calls out like a fog horn in the night.

“Look at me”
“Yoooo Hoooo”
“Down here”
“Can you see me now?”

It was like a hot dog bun wrapped up in tin foil. Gives a whole new meaning to “blinded by the light.” Damn. You know they make pads for that now. If you’re insistent on wearing pants, short, capris etc, that are too tight, wear this pad to avoid the toe.

Very rarely do you ever see “The Toe” in Alaska. It’s a very mysterious creature here in the Last Frontier. The best you’ll see is a little mid-drift, or in some case…fully loaded mid-drift that is on the verge of giving a sumo wrestler a run for their money.

I’m not fat by any means. However, if I was and had more frontal property than a homeowner on South Beach….the kind where someone might mistake me for being pregnant….and had the nerve to ask when the “blessed event” was going to take place…. I think I’d probably politely tell them I’m not pregnant then shout “I’M A SUMO WRESTLER!” Then I’d flail my arms around and get into a wrestling position and look at them, waiting to make a move.

Seriously, the outfits people wear are bad. Like sour milk bad. It’s the kind of bad that gives you the chill when you sniff it. Short shorts, cheap cheetah half shirts and double discount wedgie shoes that you can’t walk in – don’t make you look cute. It makes you look ridiculous. When you have to stop every 30 feet to adjust your shoe insole – here’s a hint: they’re cheap = throw them out! Honestly.

If your boyfriend is telling you to wear the short jean shorts – stop him right there. Nobody is wearing jean shorts these days. And please tell me you didn’t just make those jean shorts from an old pair of jeans at home…that DON’T FIT!

Finally, the women in those long, floor length, summer gowns – all cotton that usually tie around the neck…. If you have a big ass you’d be better off wearing actual camouflage pants than those giant dresses that fall over your butt. Yes, it hides your rolls but it highlights your jiggles. If I want to see two elephant seals fighting, I’d watch the Discovery Channel.

And furry men, keep your shirts on. Thank god we’re all not attracted to the same thing. I just can’t stomach overweight men in tank tops with fur….sweating everywhere. At first I thought he was wearing a sweater!

That’s Either A Thong Showing Through Your Gym Shorts Or…

Your husband’s tie got stuck inside your gym shorts – thanks to static electricity. Or is that your child’s sock hanging out your backside?

First of all, I know the fashion trend segment on the Today Show said winter whites are the style to have this season. I think they were talking about pants and skirts. Not gym shorts. If they were talking about shorts, I’m willing to bet they were talking about a nice gabardine wool blend that would look darling when pieced together with a sweater for a trip to the local museum. NOT, thin, barely there, single ply cotton gym shorts from the ’80s. I’m sorry, but your shorts have the weight of a handkerchief.

Apparently this not-so-young-lady was confused and thought my gym was the newest Hooter’s location. As I passed by her – she was on the stairclimber closest to the aisle way. Slowly bouncing along, with her butt cheeks peeking out to jiggle a “hello” to everyone who passed her. Really? I stopped short and looked around. Did I accidentally end up in a gym for men, where the encouragement is nearly naked women on cardio machines? I hate when I trip down that damn rabbit hole.

To top things off, she’s on her cell phone. On the stairclimber. Okay, if you’re a doctor, which there are a few at my gym – I understand the need to keep your phone close. I fully support the doctors taking phone calls and recommending an increase in medications or having to dash to the hospital for a patient. I would expect them to take phone calls – that’s their job, to be available! However, to trudge along on the cardio equipment and pant out a conversation, at the top of your lungs because nobody talks quietly on cell phones, what skirt you’re going to wear to dinner and your conflict on which nail polish shade to choose – is stupid. And annoying.

As I begin my cool down and stretching routine, I look up in the mirror and notice, with a horror that turns the water in my stomach like a washing machine on an extended spin cycle….she’s wearing a blue thong.

“&^%$ are you kidding me?”… I mutter as I fall out of balance in my quadricep stretch and nearly crack my head open on the handlebar of the stationary bike next to me. Enough. I’m done. Put that away. I don’t want to see that now or anytime later.

Recently, my gym put up signs (yes, multiple) in the ladies locker room that proper gym attire means wearing a full shirt. Walking around the gym floor in a sports bra does not constitute a full shirt. When I got back to the locker room I added, “no see through shorts permitted due to potential blinding of other gym members.”

I’d also like to put a sign up in the mens locker room that advises them if they have enough body hair to appear like a relative of Sasquatch, tank tops are not permitted….a full shirt is required. Glistening, sweaty, body hair is about as appealing as having to drink a glass of buttermilk.

I just threw up a little.