I've had my fair share of experiences with various gyms throughout Southern California, and every time I run into the same problem: weirdos. It seems the gyms I pick and the hours I go are filled with the disturbingly hormonal of all and any gender (even the ones I'm not exactly sure about). I understand that the first few times I used my gym pass I wore the wrong thing, too much flesh, resulting in an inadvertent-- albeit blatant--invitation to be bothered. The times after I thought my bases were covered given the fact that I was gussied up about as much as a potato sack, but the weirdos are still out there... smiling are you eerily and making Silence of the Lambs type comments about your "glowing skin" after you get off the treadmill. I currently live in the safest city in all of the United States of America. You can leave your door unlocked and your neighbor would lock it for you and leave cookies (this has happened), creepily nice people sometimes... so I live in this incredibly safe city and somehow the strangest people seem to congregate at the gym. Today's gym experience proved this very point:
Blasting Led Zeppelin in my ears, I'm in a good groove on the elliptical when "Big Guns"--we'll call him--saunters in like a tank to the machine next to me, and just stares... It seems like five minutes but it's probably been more like thirty seconds, his mouth all gaping and eyes glassy-like.
"Is there a problem?" I finally ask.
"You stole my machine," he states, sounding just about as vapid as I expected.
I think seriously for a moment that perhaps this bulky, vein-popping man is a special case... you know, a "special" case, short-bus status... You just never know, and so I respond as politely as I can muster, "Well, I've been on this machine for quite a while now, are you sure?" This is in place of a "Well is your name on it, buster?" that I could have spout out, but chose not to indulge my inner fourteen-year-old.
"No, I use this machine every day," he responds.
Okay... what the heck? So, quirking a brow (and I have some amazing eyebrows, I'll tell you), I laugh, because he has to be joking. When his cold expression doesn't change, I clear my throat and mutter to myself, "I can see that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Oh, it only means your bursting muscle makes you look like you could be giving birth to alien babies out of your numerous bulging body parts at any moment. Oh, and that your head is too small for your Hulk-esque body. I've seen G.I. Joe dolls more proportioned than you.
"I am sensing the oneness between you and the machine," I decide to answer, just to see what he'll say.
He doesn't say anything, just glares like he's, you know, the Hulk. Considering how obnoxious a law suit would be, given my tendency to say snarky things to the wrong people, I figure I've built up enough of a sweat to consider this afternoon workout sufficient.
I don't expect to find especially "wit-licious" people at the gym, but I do expect them to possess some level of sanity. Perhaps the kind in which you don't hit my car in the parking lot, or break open my locker only to steal my Hello Kitty socks (THAT WERE USED!!!), or ask me to get off your "favorite" elliptical machine... Whew! All in all I think I need to get a home gym or take up hiking again... or join a women's gym... or not.
Anyway, I was so riled up I treated myself to a Jamba Juice and wrote this blog to cool down instead of my usual sauna lounging routine. I suppose I feel better now.
Blasting Led Zeppelin in my ears, I'm in a good groove on the elliptical when "Big Guns"--we'll call him--saunters in like a tank to the machine next to me, and just stares... It seems like five minutes but it's probably been more like thirty seconds, his mouth all gaping and eyes glassy-like.
"Is there a problem?" I finally ask.
"You stole my machine," he states, sounding just about as vapid as I expected.
I think seriously for a moment that perhaps this bulky, vein-popping man is a special case... you know, a "special" case, short-bus status... You just never know, and so I respond as politely as I can muster, "Well, I've been on this machine for quite a while now, are you sure?" This is in place of a "Well is your name on it, buster?" that I could have spout out, but chose not to indulge my inner fourteen-year-old.
"No, I use this machine every day," he responds.
Okay... what the heck? So, quirking a brow (and I have some amazing eyebrows, I'll tell you), I laugh, because he has to be joking. When his cold expression doesn't change, I clear my throat and mutter to myself, "I can see that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Oh, it only means your bursting muscle makes you look like you could be giving birth to alien babies out of your numerous bulging body parts at any moment. Oh, and that your head is too small for your Hulk-esque body. I've seen G.I. Joe dolls more proportioned than you.
"I am sensing the oneness between you and the machine," I decide to answer, just to see what he'll say.
He doesn't say anything, just glares like he's, you know, the Hulk. Considering how obnoxious a law suit would be, given my tendency to say snarky things to the wrong people, I figure I've built up enough of a sweat to consider this afternoon workout sufficient.
I don't expect to find especially "wit-licious" people at the gym, but I do expect them to possess some level of sanity. Perhaps the kind in which you don't hit my car in the parking lot, or break open my locker only to steal my Hello Kitty socks (THAT WERE USED!!!), or ask me to get off your "favorite" elliptical machine... Whew! All in all I think I need to get a home gym or take up hiking again... or join a women's gym... or not.
Anyway, I was so riled up I treated myself to a Jamba Juice and wrote this blog to cool down instead of my usual sauna lounging routine. I suppose I feel better now.
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