I've always been somewhat of a clutz. You know how it's really fun to laugh at the person who just randomly trips over the crack in the sidewalk, almost falls, manages to catch themself but over-corrects and then almost falls again? Yeah, that's me.
In fact, I was taking a short lunch-time break to run an errand at walmart the other day.
Okay, so they have these really good sundae cups that are only $1 and I may or may not fantasize about them at my desk all day. And I may or may not have decided that if I didn't get one immediately I would shrivel up and die. DIE!
I didn't feel like looking for a parking spot, so I just pulled up and abandoned ship in an area that looked okay to park in. There was a BMW there as well as a Range Rover, so at the very least, I figured if it was illegal to park there, the cop would probably have a chip on his shoulder and give the rich folk shopping at Walmart a ticket before preying on the Pterradactyl. So anyway, I hop out of my car to conveniently find that I have parked in a pothole.....filled with some sort of watery substance, most likely sewage, that was now collecting at the bottom of my jeans. I jumped over the rest of the puddle, muttering to myself, and completely forgetting to watch where I was going. I walked smack into a tree branch. To make matters worse, there were 2 Walmart employees eating lunch outside and an obnoxious middle-aged man who had the audacity to laugh out loud. It's really a confidence booster to be laughed at by the masses of Walmart during your lunch break. And then I had to change my pants since they had gunk on them. And people noticed! "Hey, did you change at lunch?"
Mother F-er. I can't believe people notice the difference when I change my jeans. This probably means they notice when I wear the same two pairs for weeks at a time. You also know you are letting yourself go when co-workers you barely know ask you if you have a date after work when you wear presentable clothing. yeah i have a date....with my Walmart sundae cup and the latest episode of The Biggest Loser. My life's a real hoot.
So anyway, I have an issue with hand-eye coordination. I tried to play volleyball, but got cut in 8th grade. We had an "A" team and 2 "B" teams. I couldn't even make the 2nd B team. That same year, my best friend and I also tried out for the basketball team. In our defense, I will note that this was only a plot to force our cruel mothers to come pick us up in a CAR from school. Should 14 year old girls really still be forced to ride the school bus? Our plan worked for one day. We were not asked to come back for the next round of try outs. I did manage to play softball my freshman and sophomore year, but I figured out I wasn't any good when the red-headed stepchild of the team took my spot in right field. Literally, she has this bright red hair, looked similar to Pepper Ann, and brought her trombone to softball practice. But she started while I sat the bench.
I also tried shotput. Although I was a bit chunkier in those days, my arms were about the same size. I swear to God I could weigh 300 pounds and I would still have arms the size of pipecleaners, with muscle mass to match. My sister has them, too. She is affectionately called "Noodles" by her friends.
So obviously shotput was a joke.
Shunned by high school athletics, I decided to give a big fat middle finger to recreational sports and go for solo activities. Running really takes no coordination at all. Well I take that back, some people manage to make running look like a massacre of the arms and legs, limbs flailing about as if they were being flogged, but for the most part, running is pretty self explanatory.
What not to do:
If I had it my way, the weather would be perfect every day and the sun would stay up long enough to get in a few miles after work. But alas, winter ruins this dream. As well as hangovers. When I feel like complete ass but feel the need to burn off the large pizza I inhaled at 3am, I prefer the elliptical. No need to increase the pounding in my head by beating my feet into rock hard pavement.
First of all, I need to quit the gym. I pay $37 a month and go maybe once every 3 months. It's just easier to use the little fitness room in my apartment. You know, so when I feel like I am going to puke up my egg sandwich, I can casually haul ass to the elevator and stand over my own porcelain thrown instead of the one at 24 hour fitness. I also like to run by the convenient store by the apartment fitness center. My specialties include bananas, tropical skittles, and occasionally, sour cream & onion pringles. Oh, or goldfish or lucky charms. This is clearly my true motivation for going downstairs, the gym just happens to be a positive side note.
I'm a little ADD today due to the fact that I took numerous shots last night and then couldn't sleep. So I'm pretty sure I am delirious and possibly (definitely) still slightly (majorly) intoxicated. But I promise I'm to the point now.
People in the gym just plain old suck.
Especially on the treadmill.
First of all, there are the "waiters"
They linger about, waiting for a treadmill, craning their necks to the point of painful obviousness. I usually dealer with these lingering fools by adding time to the stopwatch. Sometimes, I like to walk an extra 5 minutes after my run just to make a point. First come, first serve, buddy. And back up out my personal space. Fo Rill.
Then there are the people who omit possibly the most noxious odors on the face of the planet when they work out. We can either refer to them as smellows (smelly fellows) or the ever popular "funky monkeys."
Either way, what is it about older men getting on the treadmill?
It's like they have a fart tank fully filled and they leak gas with each pounding step.
And then everyone ignores it!!
I'm gagging, coughing, generally dying a slow death in the newly formed gas chamber, and everyone else is just pretending like there isn't a green cloud floating 6 feet in the air.
And don't even give me that "smelt it dealt it" bullshit. 1) girls do not pass gas 2) If I did happen to feel the need to let one fly, I would politely excuse myself from the close quarters of the apartment fitness center.
On another smelly note: I'm pretty sure we live in America and that deodorant is encouraged.
Perhaps this is a cultural thing and people of certain ethnic backgrounds do not choose to participate in mainstream America's general lifestyle choices, but for God's sake please keep your arms as close to your body as possible. There is no need to excessively pump your arms as you run and you absolutely do not have the right to use the bench press. It's like the armpit died and released all body odor in one explosive burst. Except it's not one explosive burst. It just keeps coming in waves. Unexpectedly. Over and over and over again.....
WOULD YOU RATHER
Would you rather run next to rotting arm pit man or flingy sweat man?
Yeah you know what I'm talkin about. The guy who conveniently wipes his brow with a flick of the wrist so that his sweaty man juice flies across his treadmill and yours and lands on your cheek. This is not only unsanitary, since something like 80 percent of men do not wash their hands in the bathroom and now the sweat, which is gross enough on its own, has traveled across not one, but FIVE fingertips, collecting germs and bacteria before the sweat beads embark on their suicide mission to land on my face and burn holes in my rosy temples with an acid-like erosion.
Excuse me while I die of swine flu.
And, finally, as if my body has not been punished enough on the physical front. Gym-goers decide to ear-rape me with their grunting.
There are two types of grunting.
The loud, ARRGHHHAAAAA, most commonly used by guido men trying to lift far more than they are capable of. This is not a show put on for the women. We don't care. They need to impress the other beef cakes. This rebel yell is inevitably followed by the sound of crashing iron as Popeye drops the weights instead of lowering them appropriately. This grunt in annoying, but not particularly intrusive.
And then we have the moaners.
Usually, I notice the moaners when they are doing crunches. And of course, it usually happens when there are very few people around, making an already uncomfortable situation feel more and more like a porno with every passing second. It's like bow-chicka-wow-wow is going to come on, softly building up as the moaner gets frisky with a barbell.
I realize that working out can be painful for some. Personally, I like to quit before I have to exert too much energy or really push my muscles to the brink. However, if you choose to engage in intense workouts, please check your sexual hullabaloo at the door. I'm having enough trouble keeping my tequila infused burps at bay, and Hulk-like groans are not on my "just make it through 30 minutes and then you get a cookie" playlist.
Don't even get me started on [straight] men who only use ellipticals and stairmasters. It's a whole other topic that I just don't have the energy to address this morning. Perhaps there will come a time when I feel the need to blog about it. Maybe I will also include the dreaded New Year's exercisers.
This post has really put a damper on my work out plans for later today. At least I know I can completely disgust people with the stale alcohol smell I am wearing as perfume. Eau de MichelobUltraTequilaSocoLimeVodkawater. Sold in a bar near you.
And don't judge me. It's okay when I reek. The rules don't apply to me.
I walk on the wild side.