I’m living out my very own Tinderella story in an undisclosed location with my Prince Charming. Still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up; but while I work that out, I’m content to write about and share my overly dramatic, if not slightly exaggerated, semi-autobiographical diary. Okay, so technically, it’s actually autobiographical - but the other way sounded better.
Saturday, I ran my first 5k. It was the 2-38 CAV 5K Turkey Trot/Shadow Run and I did it because I thought it would be neat to run alongside my boyfriend who was also running it at the same time with his people in Afghanistan. It would have been neat, if he actually ran it, but he didn’t because of an injury. By the time I found out, I had already committed to the run – so, part of the ‘neatness’ was gone - but I was kind of excited about it, honestly.
Let me say that I think a lot of things are neat and I do them impulsively – sometimes that’s a hit or miss for me like the time I decided to try handstand pushups on my own. Big miss. Running a 5K with no previous training and not running more than a mile or two at a time is not the smartest thing I ever did.
So, in preparation, the night before, I decided to try and do a practice run on the treadmill. 5K is roughly 3.2 miles. I wanted to find a good but fast enough pace that would allow me to make it through the run without stopping, puking, dropping dead or looking like I was about to do any of the above.
After about two miles, my lungs were on fire. I decided to do the third-point-two mile in the morning before the run.
Don’t ask about the logic on that one. It made sense at the time.
In the morning, I did the other 1.2 miles and some weight training and felt good about the upcoming run. That is, until I got to the location of the run and saw how many kids were participating. I’m not a competitive person, but there’s something about not being as fast or having as much energy as a 10 year old that’s an ego buster for me. Quietly in my mind, I made a deal with myself that even though I would not leave my run buddy Erin behind, but I was not going to let these kids beat me.
Every single one of them beat me, unless they were in a stroller.
Don’t get me wrong, I am proud because, for never having run a 5k, we ran the entire way except about .25 miles of it that included a steep incline – my legs were not hearing that one at all. But sometime before the race, I had verbally challenged a 10-year-old girl who not only beat me by a whole 15 minutes, she made sure to flash her medal in my face - continuously. If she wasn’t so adorable, that medal would have mysteriously made it to the top of the barn at the ranch where the run took place. There is no shame in my game, people.
I would like to officially thank my two South African friends – who kinda sorta said they would not leave Erin and me behind during the run - for taking off like bats out of Hades – they were like gazelles. Especially the professional runner who insisted she had not trained in months … once a runner, always a runner. It was actually quite impressive and now I have a new goal: to run a 10K – or at least two 5Ks.
But I do need to send a special shout out to my run buddy, Erin. Erin, thank you for keeping my pace, I know you could have done it faster, even after the red bull and vodkas the night before, because you are in way better shape than me. There’s another 5k in Temple Thanksgiving morning.
So, I've been writing on this semi-fictitious book for the last 6 months and made it through two chapters. I figure if I post a little bit at a time, it will motivate me to write more. It's the true – if not slightly exaggerated - story of my rise and fall to local fame - some things I'm proud of, some not so much - but entertaining nonetheless. The people in it are real as are the events although I’ve changed the names to protect certain people from having to take accountability for their actions like a real grown-up should.
Dear Haters,
You will be pleased to know that I am typing this with my middle finger.
It has come to my attention that although I no longer live in the vicinity of Dramaville, the mere fact that I still exist bothers every one of you to the point that I am still the focal point of your gossip. Maybe you haven’t figured it out, but the more you talk about me, the more famous I will become. By trying to tarnish my professional and personal reputation, you’ve vaulted me to a kind of rock star status.
I suppose a small thank you is in order, without all of your incessant gossip and slander, I wouldn’t be as popular as I am today. I’ve become a … local celebrity – if you will. I always wanted to be famous, but imagined achieving that notoriety from being an A-list actress – unfortunately, that didn’t quite work out. You’ve spun stories of my supposed misadventures, misdeeds and whorish shenanigans that probably would have exhausted me, or killed me, had I actually had to do all of it myself. You know, I’m not even geographically local anymore, yet I’m still relevant in your conversations – which kind of makes me more than a local celebrity – it makes me national. And that kind of makes me giggle.
So, without further ado, I should probably thank a few people personally.
Let me start by thanking my former BFF for altering and airing my dirty laundry. There’s discretion and then there’s diversion, and even though all my mistakes and poor choices were made well within my social and marital status (single), by using me to divert attention from your own selective morals and indiscretions you unwittingly helped launch my local popularity. Thank you and I hope you enjoyed my hand-me-downs, I blessed both of those married bastards for you.
To the best friend - you were always there for me until it was no longer socially advantageous for you to be – thank you for always saying you had my back. I had no idea that meant talking behind it, but I suppose if you didn’t, most of what was and is going around about me wouldn’t be enough for anyone to believe. You can sell a story like you can sell your virtue to those who don’t know any better. Keep living ‘la vida loca’ honey! It suits you like the pound of make-up you paint on every morning to try and hide what’s underneath.
Every celebrity has to have a stalker and I would be remiss in not mentioning mine. I’ve never met you personally, but somehow you know me … and befriended all my frenemies. You deluded yourself into thinking I cared but I was merely amused that you were so threatened by my existence you felt the need to join in the hate parade. But you played your part so well; even opened up fake Facebook accounts to fake-mail people – as me! Well played, sister, well played.
If you’re wondering why I decided to finally reply to the high school, mean girl bullying, it’s because I found a way to be cleverly witty about it – and I’m bored. The truth is, I don’t care what you think about me. I am happy, but clearly you all are not. So, please, feel free to say anything negative or degrading about me if it gives you the confidence to get through your day – and even your life - because mine is pretty good. Granted, it’s not as exciting as you have made it out to be, but it’s good enough that I’m not counting anyone else’s blessings but my own. I’d say that’s a win.
I realize this entire situation is my fault – somehow. I have a big mouth with no filter. At least you know what I really think and you heard it from me first, not everyone else. I suppose that’s the real difference between me, and all of you. No, I take that back. The real difference is that I’m a grown ass woman who left high school back in 1992 – where it belongs.
So, in the middle school dialogue that you can understand, I dedicate this to you – my h8rz.
Sincerely,
Chick who doesn’t give a shit anymore
PS: Not talking about you, rock star. Anyone who can own up to being a bitch and leave it in the past is respectful in my book. Literally.
So, since the Boyfriend has been deployed, I have been putting together care packages to send him every month. I mostly fill them with fat boy treats, sports magazines, his fave shows and cleaning/hygiene products … plus a few other items of “sentimental” value. I also include specialty magazines and movies for pleasurable tension relief – better known as porn.
One day, the Boyfriend and I were talking and he requested a specific magazine: American Curves. He said it wasn’t a nude magazine, just chicks in lingerie and bikinis posing. Finding it was a bitch, but once I did, I could see why he liked it. I, however, immediately disliked it and would have rather picked up an issue of MILF or Teen 'V.' See, porn chicks are just on the side of skank that I don’t feel I have to compete. The girls in American Curves … were probably still skanks, just a more classy skank - and I just can't pull of 'skank,' just classy.
But, I sent it, and a few others, with a warning: if any of those pages made it to the walls in his “room,” next to our photos, he would be looking for a new girlfriend. (No, I wasn’t serious … kinda maybe a little). Needless to say, he was stoked.
Well, the new issue came out a week ago and I bought it. The feature teased in big, bold letters on the cover made me sad for the truth of how simple man-brains really are. It was the UNDERBOOB EXTRAVAGANZA issue – pages and pages of underboob shots. Girls posing in the park, in the gym, by the pool and other public locations in bikinis, tank tops, half tops, jersey tops, any tops – cropped to showcase the cleavage peeking out from under their tops. And … it was a big deal.And ... it made me laugh. Hard. Out loud. In the bookstore.
Really, guys? C’mon. I don’t want to ruin a fantasy, but my underboobs are not sexy after a workout - that's not baby oil dripping down my abs from my boobs. It's boob sweat. I imagine the equivalent for chicks would be ball cleavage. Coming out of shorts, peeking out of ranger panties and – if they hung low enough – the back shot while standing over the toilet. Ew. Okay, not exactly the same. But kinda funny and definitely NOT sexy at all.
You know, you have to wonder why guys want to see pages of that when they could just watch porn or look through a more graphic mag. It’s like guys trick themselves into thinking they’re seeing something they shouldn’t because it’s peeking out under a shirt? What kind of mind games are men playing with themselves? If you’re seeing it, it’s because someone wants you to. That’s why they took the photos and printed them in the magazine you are holding in your hands right now.
Can’t wait for the underbutt issue, because I know there will be one. I can imagine the excitement over several pages of butt/thigh cleavage. Can I even begin to tell dudes what goes on down there after a good workout or long, hot sweaty tanning session? But I bet I’ll buy that one for the Boyfriend, too.
One of the questions I’ve been asked by guys more times than was probably necessary is, “what’s your ideal guy?”
Does anyone really answer this question honestly?
Yes, guys actually do! Turns out, I’ve never matched the description of anyone’s ideal chick. I’m going to stop giving the PC answer of, “Well, he would be smart, funny and reasonably good-looking,” and just start making things up, like “tall, lean, blonde hair and blue eyes or Gerard Butler, however I will accept Jared Leto.” Actually, there’s, like 10 percent truth in that statement.
The answer I get has always been preferential physical attributes that I would never be able to fake, like, “tall, blonde, and tan,” or “Asian.”
Shut the front door. Really? Asian?
Okay, so in heels, I could possibly stretch out to about 5’5” tall. But I’m never going to morph into an Asian woman. Ever. That little bit of info did, however, explain one particular dude’s fascination with my Korean stepmom. Weird.
I can’t figure out what’s worse, though, someone wanting specific vagina or someone who just likes it all, because I’ve gotten the, “I don’t have a type, I’m a 31-Flavors type of guy,” wink reply a few times, too. Because if the former told me that I’m shooting myself in the foot to even try, the latter had some definite cheater potential. Do I need to watch out for a bunch of hot chicks or specific hot chicks? Guys, if you think chicks are interpreting this as you being open to all girls regardless of race, religion or level of physical attraction, we're not. We hear, "I just like p****. All kinds of p****. Right now, I ain't got none, so you'll do." Romantic.
My type is a guy who says his type is me, which is true for all girls. Even if it isn’t, lie, asshole. If you’re going to play the game, play it right, you will get further. This works with every girl. Yes, we say we want an honest answer, but you have to understand there are times when it’s okay to give our kind of honest – the flattering kind. For example, if you’re an ass-man and the chick isn’t stacked that way, very smoothly (or even awkwardly, we will appreciate the effort) pick a physical attribute she does have that you can live with and use that. One day you guys will be so in love that the truth will be funny and not questionably hurtful. But just in case you’re not her last stop before the altar or domesticated partnership, you don’t want to send her off with issues – just in case. Issues can turn into Lifetime TV movies.
Besides, you seriously don’t think she’s with you because you were her first choice do you? By the time you came around, she was ready to look past the exterior and see if a real boy was better than her teen idol and Hollywood leading man fantasy – and the one or few douchebags that left her self-esteem damaged. If you’re “reasonably goodlooking,” then that’s a plus.
I’ve never been the goodlooking chick. I grew on boys with my personality, but the minute a hot chick walked by, it was like I didn’t exist. My exterior may have improved a little bit since those days, but the interior is still the same. So, if your ideal is a girl who cleans up nice and is smart enough to hold a conversation about all things interesting, some things random, then I would be it. But most don’t get past the exterior. I just look like a good time. And I suppose posting my “best” pics on Facebook don’t really help, but even smart chicks like to indulge in a little bit of Internet narcissism. I know I don’t get to look like that everyday because Photoshop only works on the computer.
Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Not really sure what my ex-boyfriend saw in me, but apparently, I’m just enough fantasy girl, just enough crazy bitch and just enough fun to stick around. Yes, we played the question game, too. His answer:
“I’m going to attempt a CrossFit event this weekend, Fight Gone Bad, with my friends Rachel and Master Phil.” ~ Me
“Hehe. Hehehehe. Hahe. Hahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahehehe!” ~ the Daughter
“Really. What’s so funny?” ~ Me
“Nothing, mom, I just didn’t think you were that athletic, but it’s cool,” ~ the Daughter
She’s right. I’m not athletic. And CrossFit is no joke. Everything about it is intimidating from the intense WODS (acronym: workout of the day) to the close-knit community. But the results are real and motivate me to keep it up. After just one week, I decided to take part in Fight Gone Bad, a charity CrossFit event, at the urging of my trainer, Master Phil. I drafted his fiancé Rachel as my suicide buddy. Because I was definitely not ready to take on CrossFit newbie death – at least not by myself.
The WOD was not that difficult on paper: (3 rounds)
· Wall-ball, 20 pound ball, 10 ft target (Reps)
· Sumo deadlift high-pull, 75 pounds (Reps)
· Box Jump, 20" box (Reps)
· Push-press, 75 pounds (Reps)
· Row (Calories)
I was concerned about the wall-ball, dead lifts and push-presses because of the weight, but during the set-up, they made a lane especially for counter-CrossFitters like me: the weaksauce lane. That meant the wall-ball medicine ball would only be 10 pounds and there would just be a bar for the DLs and PPs. Once I sampled each station and was convinced I’d be able to do the WOD without dropping dead, quitting or puking, I relaxed. Until the event started.
I got my ass handed to me. Turns out, there is no such thing as a ‘weaksauce’ lane in CrossFit.You would think someone would have told me that at some point.
Maybe I should have started with something further from the wall-balls so that would have been last on my set-list. Because someone switched out the 10 lb. ball for a 20 lb. one and it nearly destroyed my arms.
Destroyed.
Going from that to the sumo dead lifts on the first round only served to punish my arms some more for not embarrassing me on the wall-balls. See, I pushed through the entire WOD on pride alone. Pride is a powerful force in someone like me, much like a Jedi, I was not about to quit and I was not about to puke. But I fantasized about both. I could only imagine how my buddy Rachel was doing.
Apparently, better than me by a whole 20 points. I’m glad I’m not competitive, which is another reason I powered through this WOD with my pride intact. My goal was to finish without dying, and I did that. Kudos to Master Phil for a good call in getting me involved in this event because not only did I have a good time, I learned valuable points:
· I know better than to say, “that looks easy.” As a matter of fact, those are famous last
words
Pain is a relative term
Puking, dying and crying are honorable ends to all workouts
Wounds are like badges of honor: If you’re not sporting callouses, cuts and bruises,you didn’t work out hard enough
Most events are for charity, so you almost HAVE to complete it or you feel as if you’ve failed more than just yourself. Good tactic.
All WODS seem to be named for chicks, Mr. Glassman must have had some seriousfemale issues.
The gym is called a box and the workouts typically involve a timer and a large group. So, if you share my phobia of working out in front of people … recruit a best buddy who is also at your level so there are at least two of you who look clueless and awkward. I like the workouts because routine bores me. Pretty sure plowing through CrossFit without my muscles imploding or exploding will never get boring.
However, I don’t have a hive mentality and just because I like something, doesn’t mean I will immediately become all about it, own all the gear and speak the language. Not sure if that’s cause I’m just too old to get it or if my independence is rebelling against what I see as conformity – the exact reason I was not popular in school growing up.
(Well, that and some of my hobbies which included being a half-elven, warrior mage in Dungeons & Dragons, dressing up for the Heroes Convention every year, art, reading, being smart and euro-pop music - just enough to hit nerd status. Which would all still be happening except that I quite like having a boyfriend and a moderately popular existence playing it all down. But I digress … )
CrossFit is an intimidating community. It’s all about the WODs, the gear, the physique and the lifestyle – and proving that you live, breathe and sleep it. It really is a lifestyle choice and it’s about making choices – the right ones – although it can seem a little extreme to outsiders looking in:
Diet: Paleo – the caveman diet. Eating like our ancestors to be healthy. I am neither for nor against any kind of diet, but have you seen a Paleo muffin? As my friend Rachel pointed out, the key ingredient in one of those is sadness (note: never tried one, so if they are yummier than they look, apologies). I’d rather eat guaranteed happiness in the form of a yummy, calorie-laden, cellulite-fertilizing brownie – then work it off with a good work out. (Actually, in research, those on the Paleo diet were found to have more energy and better recovery time during and after workouts.) And you can modify to include important stuff like dairy so you don’t cut out certain nutrients. Eating is important when doing CrossFit, so if you’re a fad dieter and into cutting food completely from your daily ritual to try and lose weight – don’t do this, you will die.
Fashion: CrossFit is like the special operations of the fitness world. As such, there’s gear sponsored accordingly. If you’re a dude, you probably own board shorts and shirts with bad-ass logos and sayings. Shoes are optional, barefoot is preferred, and if you don’t want to go barefoot, you can invest two whole paychecks and get a pair of Vibram 5 fingers. Contradictory to the name, these are like gloves for your feet. Get the feel of going shoeless but with the security of knowing your piggies are covered and hugged … ? They are unattractive, make you look like you have frog feet and I will never own a pair (another set of famous last words) unless they come with heels.
CrossFit-ography: Because if there are no photos to prove it, that awesome, torturous WOD never actually happened. At every CrossFit event I’ve been to, there have been at least 10 cameras, that do both still and video, recording at all times and all of it ends up on Facebook. I guess it’s a sign of pride in accomplishment, but currently, I’m not into posting photos of each near death experience I have with CrossFit. One day, when I look and can perform like a bad-ass, I will partake in some social network, CrossFit narcissism – My muscles in their own album.
Acronyms: Because after a hellacious workout, you don’t have the breath to speak in entire sentences – or at least that’s been my experience so far. It’s like another language. I had to Google WOD, AMRAP, CFT, DL, FS and BS, among others, so that I could read and understand the workouts – it was like reading a military brief. There should be required reading as a pre-req; Google-to-go has been an amazing fingertip cheat sheet.
Enthusiasts of any kind bring me great joy in pointing out the hilarity in extreme behaviors – this includes me. I make fun of myself a lot because I don’t understand a lot of what I get myself into and boredom, curiosity and dislike of repetition/routine has motivated me to try a lot of things – most of them not as productive as working out. I like CrossFit for the workouts, but I don’t see myself immersing into the lifestyle. If that makes me an outsider – as long as I can still workout, I’ll be okay with that. Besides, I own a camera and I’m pretty darn good with it: will trade WOD for pics.
Yes, Master Phil and Rachel, I will be there 5am Monday.
So, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend with something to help him ‘relieve stress’ on his all-male retreat. We are both fans of the show Blue Mountain State and last season, they featured the ‘pocket pussy.’ This sexual aid does for men what a dildo/vibrator does for a woman. They are made out of super soft, almost velvety feeling material shaped into a sleeve just for a penis. It was a hilarious BMS episode and never in a million years did I think I’d find myself in an adult store buying one.
But there I was, standing inside the Dirty Toy store, looking at pussy - a lot of it. Apparently, every major porn star has a mold of her girly-bits; there were all kinds of colors and sizes, and the biggest decision was deciding which vagina I wanted to hand over to the boyfriend. I didn’t want it to look prettier or feel better than mine, however I knew if I was going to do this, I had to be all in – that meant getting the best one. I didn’t want to get some second-rate cheap piece of silicone that would eventually make his junk feel like he was rubbing one out with a box of plastic. It was going to take more than one trip and several Google re-searches before I could make this purchase.
On the next few trips to the Dirty Store, I stood in front of all my choices as Google reviews and recommendations flashed through my brain. I tried to remember the tips and tricks to choosing the perfect vagina (a decision I never thought I’d have to make, by the way).
I didn’t want Jenna’s because it was too loose, Sasha Grey’s was made for a ‘creampie’which didn’t sound too hygienic in the long term, I shouldn’t get any of the newer actresses because they weren’t reliable to last and the off brand, no-name ones came in unattractive colors and didn’t boast being made from material that was compared to ‘NASA invented, cyberskin technology.’ There was even a Fleshlight which was basically a flashlight that turns into a pocket masturbator. It didn’t even make the cut: at $60 I could have made one cheaper. It was also big and bulky and I could see all kinds of ways that could go wrong.
Then I saw it.
‘It’ was a pussy molding kit. I could send my boyfriend a mold of my own girly bits! Yay! Instead of buying someone else’s vagina, I get to send him mine. Win.
I bought it and got right to work on molding my hooha. How surprised would the boyfriend be to find my box in his box?! But just like most of my bright ideas, they work better in theory. There were a few points that were in small print and missed, the most important being I would need an accomplice to make a successful mold of my vagina.
Seriously? Do chicks really do that? Who was I going to call that would be okay with being all up in my business? However, this was a detail that shouldn’t have been ignored.
My mold looked like a crime scene replica of a serial-mangled vagina. Fail.
It was not sexy at all. I went back to the Dirty Store and bought the Belladonna – a cyberskin vagi-mold of the kinkiest girl in porn. I also had to buy a particular cleaning solution and special lube called “Gun Oil” –aptly named.
Once that adventure was done, I put together the box I would be shipping out. I removed ‘Belladonna’ from the packaging and wrapped it in a pair of under armor shorts, stuffed the box super tight (no pun intended) with other goodies and headed to the post office – where I was promptly notified that I needed to repackage my box (pun intended …?).
In my excited rush to mail out the package that day, I had squeezed too many things in the box and, in the process, some of the items slipped, causing a bulge (again, no pun intended) and starting a small tear, which I taped up poorly.
Damn. It was busy day at the post office, too.
I didn’t want to wait to mail it, so I pulled another box and carefully started removing all the items from it, loading them into the new one. While trying to be fast, careful and covert about the pocket pussy, the most horrific thing that could happen, did. I dropped the shorts it was wrapped in and it rolled out towards two little boys. As I tried to grab for it, the old box tipped and the Gun Oil and cleaner rolled out, too.
No one said a word, they just stood there - I can imagine with their mouths open, even though I was too embarrassed to look - when they saw what I was trying to smuggle in a pair of shorts. Because everyone did see it happen and if they didn't see it at first, what happened next made sure they did. One of the little boys, who was only trying to help, grabbed the Belladonna and squished it in his hands for a second before handing it to me – genital area first.
“What is that thing? It’s squishy.”
As the other boy handed me the Gun Oil and cleaner, I said the only thing that seemed to make sense.
“It’s a gun cleaner ...” The mom laughed out loud.
I’m glad he didn’t ask me any particulars, like how to use it. He just asked if my ‘husband’ was a Soldier like his daddy and wanted to know if that would make a good Christmas present since his dad shoots guns, too.
The horror.
It was like a really public nip-slip event, one from which I should have departed with a quickness. Yet, I stayed and endured a painfully long wait for a good cause – my boyfriend’s sexual well-being before even the chugly girls start looking good over there.
Who knew this would turn into such an ordeal? Guess I’ll pack my box the right way next time. No pun intended.
Most of my problem with working out has been finding the energy after working an 8-10 hour day to be motivated. When I get home, I would rather do almost anything than work out; that includes clean, cook, organize the receipts and loose change I find in my pants pockets and domestic duties that I would also blow off if I had anything better to do. But I don't. That's why working out at home is harder than going to the gym. So, my new plan is to get a pre-work workout at the gym - which means waking up to get there before anyone else does. Because the second most annoying feeling in the world is knowing people might be watching you work out.
Unfortunately, 5:30 a.m. isn’t early enough and neither is 4 a.m. Because there is always that one retired sergeant major that gets up at 3 a.m. just to prove to himself that he can still get it. How frustrating. I thought I could run a really slow two miles and wait him out, but I gotta give it to him, he has some stamina. I guesstimated he was on the stationary bike for at least an hour. But I did find a corner to myself so no one would see how uncoordinated and un-graceful I am when I’m lunging, squatting and lifting my way to better abs, chest, back, arms, ass and legs. That sounds a lot more impressive than it looks right now.
One thing that I noticed right away is that when you work out with real weights, and not taped together Campell soup cans, you will actually break a decent sweat. Feeling your muscles burn, having the feeling that you’re making progress … it’s kind of motivating. A lot of the at-home workouts I was doing were modified pilates and crossfit exercises and there’s only so much you can do in the comfort and privacy of a small, apartment sized living room without bothering the downstairs neighbors or kicking furniture. Having a huge gym is awesome. If I could just get people to stay out until I’m done, it would be perfect.
Speaking of, this was also the week that every woman in the building whose New Year’s resolution was to lose weight, decided to start on that. You know who those people are, too. They are the ones who go straight to the treadmill and the elliptical machines because they don’t want anyone watching them try to figure out the rest of the equipment. They should have gotten up at 3 a.m. like the sergeant major.
Fun fact: Wanna see a bunch of dudes at the gym suddenly stop "working out" and walk aimlessly around each piece of equipment between sets while flexing? Be the first mildly attractive chick to walk into the gym - and actually know what she's doing. I could tell he may have been nervous about not looking ‘cool’ while working out. Seriously, though, if you’re a dude, it doesn’t matter what you think you look like when you’re “pumping iron,” it looks like you know what you’re doing to any chick that walks in. Unless you’re the one old guy who was almost swinging from one of the Nordic Trac looking pieces of equipment. I thought he was going to pull vertebrae. I still can’t figure out what he was trying to do by falling to the ground and swinging back up with the weights, body flinging like a gumby.
For now, I guess a 4 a.m. start will probably be good, we’ll see how long that lasts. I had been splitting my workout between mornings and evenings as two 45 minute workouts, trying to avoid people in the gym. But someone passed the memo around that I had a phobia, so now, no matter how late I go, there is always one person who shows up, mid-workout to ruin my flow.
Maybe if there was someone else doing what I was doing, looking just as awkward and ungraceful, I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious when I’m at the gym. Is that why people have work out buddies? So they don’t look stupid all by themselves? Smart.
