zen and the art of physical fitness

So, this is one of those things that was too long to Tweet but would probably make for a crap blog post. I suppose I could have just kept it to myself, but...well...we both know that I don't always do that so well...

When you live in a relatively large, middle class, suburban town with a healthy elderly population, you tend to see some fairly awful attire at the town's community fitness center. Trust that I've seen my fair share of chandelier earrings, bedazzled tracksuits, curious piercings, and men walking the treadmill in Wrangler jeans, so it really does takes something truly special to faze me.

However, last week I saw:

A rail-thin, teenage boy running the treadmill while wearing Dockers, the waist of which he had hiked up to his armpits and the cuffs of which he had tucked into a pair of white tube socks he had pulled up to his knees. His glasses were unironically large, his Simples were outdated and lacking in both arch support and traction, and his polo shirt was tucked tightly into his pants. (In other words, he was a Caucasian Steve Urkel, but in 2009 and in real life.)

AND

A woman doing what appeared to be a combination of high-impact aerobics, Tai-Chi, and interpretive dance on the stair climber machine for, like, an hour. With weights.

And call me catty, but I like collecting sights like these. Seeing people like Tube Sock Kid and Aerobic Tai-Chi Lady usually serve to help me feel better about my own ability to blend into a crowd, which is usually how I prefer to rock it at the gym – unnoticed, unremarkable, and utterly usual. So, while separately these sights would have each been impressive, together they were downright distracting, which was probably the reason I had failed to notice that my right shoe had come untied while I was running.

That is, until I tripped. And nearly fell. And made a bit of a scene. And, while kneeling to tie my shoe, noticed that I had quite the collection of cracker crumbs all over my bosom and in the corners of my mouth from my apparently very messy pre-gym snack. It was loud, embarrassing, and even weird Tai-Chi lady turned to stare at the clumsy, slovenly cow who was making all the ruckus on the treadmill (i.e, ME).

And that, my friends, is what you call KARMA.

(However, at least I wasn't wearing Wrangler jeans at the gym right? Because everyone knows that THAT GUY's the worst! Right?!

Right.

Good night.)

when i learn that winning is sometimes losing after all

As some of you may recall, me and my gym's stair climber machine have a bit of a history. A long, bitter, embarrassing, and mildly painful history.

But while lesser women would have long ago accepted defeat, I, simply put, am not lesser women. And this would be why I - spurred on by a stubborn streak far more acute than the memory of past failures - decided to give things another go today. For you see, today would be different. My bum required it.

So, I tried. And ten seconds later - pedals cemented to the floor, glistening with sweat, and reeking of failure - I very nearly threw in the towel, 'though this time for good.

But as it turned out, today was different. This time my struggles - embarrassingly visible to most everyone in the gym - were acknowledged by a good Samaritan. My angel of mercy was roughly sixty, stocky, and wearing the sort of sweatbands around his forehead and writs that only a man of his age and physique can somehow pull off without so much as a trace of irony. Taking pity on me, he left his arm lifting machine (Yes, I am using all official equipment names. Thanks for noticing), crossed over to me and offered his assistance. Initially, he left rebuffed by my wounded pride, but after realizing just how painfully clear it was to him, me and everyone else in the immediate vicinity that I was lying, that I actually had no idea how to work this effing machine, my pride finally wore out and allowed me to give in. I turned to him, gave a nod and my most winning smile, and admitted that I couldn't do it on my own, that I was damsel in need of rescue.

A few minutes later we were up and running. The resistance was right, my legs were climbing and the sweet taste of victory tasted so very, very...sweet. I was positively thrilled, for I had conquered my arch nemesis - the stair climber machine - proving once and for all that no mere machine can make me its little bitch! Hells yeah, baby!!

Sensing my joy, my ally beamed a smile back. But my victory swell ebbed almost as soon as it flowed when he, eyes suddenly letchy and voice turning pervy, said, "You know, this machine is great for your behind!" glancing down at the object in question and sealing his sentiments with a wink for good measure.

And as if that wasn't enough to prove his point, he then wound up his towel and smacked me with it.

Smacked me Square. In. The. Bum.

In sum, What I Learned Today:
As it turns out, I lack a ready response for random pervy old men who've just smacked me in the bottom with their towels, other than to go all wide-eyed, let my mouth fall agape, and spend the remainder of my gym tenure feeling hyper-aware of my bottom. (Which, for the record, is now totally owie after only ten minutes on the blasted contraption. Damn you, stair climber machine! How was I to know this wasn't a war worth winning!?)

simply irresistible (to the elderly)

I have recently fallen into the unfortunate and dangerous habit of dropping my towel when I run. You'd think I'd learn after the 25th time or so, but no. Still, I continue to drape it over the handlebar of the treadmill where it limply remains until I hit a certain point in my run - usually somewhere between 5.8 and 6 miles per hour - when the vibrations of the machine become too much and the towel goes *whoosh!,* slipping off the handlebar and dropping onto the treadmill's belt, when I then have to do this impromptu and completely inelegant hop/dance/skip thing to keep from tripping on it and dying.

Well, maybe not dying, but falling down and going boom, most certainly.

Anyway, after it just narrowly misses demising me, the towel will then shoot off of the treadmill's belt to land in a tiny white pool on the floor. I never stop for it, because nearly every time this happens some kind and thoughtful person will eventually come along, pick it up, and return it to me. Usually, that kind and thoughtful person is this one particular older gentleman who looks to be nearly seventy, wears a sweatband 'round his wrinkled white head, and dedicates most of his workout to twisting, stretching, and deep knee bending. Whenever he's around I need not worry about the streams of sweat that threaten to run into my eyes and render me blind, because he's always quite Johnny-on-the-spot about it, "rushing" over nearly immediately to be my aged hero. From him, I can always expect a sincere, warm smile as he taps me on the shoulder to hand me my towel, and after dropping it again yesterday for the upteenth time, he did not disappoint.

However, yesterday was different.

Yesterday, he added a new twist to our little routine.

Yesterday, he winked.


And I'm now left to wonder - does he suspect I'm doing this purposefully?

at the gym - the saga continues

Please don't misunderstand me. I love the mentally handicapped.

They're God's children - innocent, kind, and mostly unencumbered of pettiness and the neuroses that the rest of us have to put up with. Furthermore, the mentally handicapped tend to love me too. I've never been exactly sure why, but while my presence often reduces babies and teenage girls to tears; animals, older children, elderly men and those with mental handicaps tend to love me. So, I would never, ever dream of dishonoring or belittling someone with a cognitive disability. And that's not what I'm planning on doing here.

At least, I don't mean to. Really.

But allow me to back up. Due to a poorly planned nap, I made it to the gym uncharacteristically late yesterday. Arriving at work-out "rush hour," I considered myself lucky that there was exactly one treadmill available, allowing me to jump on and avoid an irksome wait. What I didn't notice right away was that the man running next to me was mentally handicapped.

Which, of course, is fine. Please remember, I love the mentally handicapped.

At my gym the wall in front of the treadmills is lined with mirrors, allowing me to stare at my sweaty self and and my sweaty treadmill neighbors, and since there's little else to do I tend to spend a fair amount of time sizing up those around me. As for my neighbor, there were no noticeable physical signs of his handicap, but right away I noticed his cumbersome gate and general awkwardness. My suspicions were soon further raised when I began to hear him sing a sloppily executed but soulfully felt rendition of "Eye of the Tiger" along with the discman he was clutching in his hand. After running along side him for a bit longer, I began to notice some of the less subtle signs. Nearly the entire time he ran his face remained lit up with a childish grin, and he would periodically raise a large hand to wave at random people who walked past him. I noticed that most of the people he waved to made solid attempts to avoid his gaze, and instead of waving back most shifted their eyes down to the floor, which saddened me. So when he eventually turned sideways to me and treated me to a huge, sweet grin and a friendly wave, I made a point of meeting his gaze reflected in the mirror and offered a big smile in return, thinking how nice it must be to innocently see the world as a place filled with friends and fun and smiles. It was in the middle of that thought when I glanced something else in the mirror, and my eyes drifted south of his face to notice that he had a...

um,

well, I noticed that he appeared to have a rather large, er...
What I mean to say is that it appeared that he had seemed to develop a unmistakable...
ah,

...oh, come on. Don't make me say it. You get the idea.