You Can't Work It If You Ain't Got It

I'm at the gym (which, yeah, is a miracle in of itself - and if Jesus could turn water into wine, you would think he could make a chocolate bar that makes you lose weight- I mean, Jesus, Jesus! No wonder you're losing throngs to the virgins-in-the-afterlife group!)

Back to mysuestories at the gym... So, I'm at the gym, and I am constantly awed by these, um, super people. If you have ever made the decision to torture yourself at a health club, I'm sure you've seen them, too. On the outside, they look like your average, every day, fellow human (except that they're usually 40 lbs underweight if female- 60 pounds of muscle overweight if male)--- but put them in their natural habitat; IE: the fitness center- and they stand out like a Jersey Housewife in a dollar store.

That's right...I'm talking about super-workout girl. You know her. She's rocking the cute little matching yoga pants and tankini top that cost more than my entire membership for a year. Or maybe you've met her man, Mr. I Lift Things Up and Put Them Down- the guy with the sixty inch neck supporting one head and the two inch steroid atrophied penis --nevermind--- you
know who I'm talking about!

It's bad enough that I have to drag myself to the d@mned gym in the first place, in my ratty sweat pants and stained tee shirt (Which? Brand new was a great maternity outfit only 20 years ago!--I'm thrifty, peeps, not poor.....or at least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it).

I jump on a treadmill in a line of soldier-like treadmills lined up thisclose together, facing nothing but the lower level of the gym and six flat screen TVs that seem to air nothing but CNN - and yeah, I like my news, but how much Wolf can one person possibly take for the love of God- so there's not a whole lot of entertainment....(that is-- if you're not including me trying to walk on a moving surface-- now that? That's entertainment).

So I people watch. For forty five grueling boring minutes (ooh, and don't forget the mandatory five minute slow down!) I watch. I watch Gym Rat Girl and Juice Boy. I take little not-so- sly peeks at your speed and your time and definitely your weight on your workout screen. (and, you-know-I-know that you took ten pounds off your weight- That's okay...I took off 20- easiest weight I ever lost).
But do you know what the most amazing part of my treatment for potato chip and onion dip addiction is? While I am on that treadmill burning away all those late night bon bons and cookie dough ice cream sundaes? It's that these children of the gym, these work out aficiondos....these hamsters whose little rat legs were just made for running in one place---they are talking while they are working out.

I know. Astonishing, isn't it? They are talking. On a phone. To each other. To themselves. To their gym equipment.

I don't know how they do it. I can barely walk on the d@mned treadmill without tangling my feet- and that's while holding on to the side bars for dear life. But not them. They answer calls, send texts, maybe even they're having sext....and hooray for them if they are....But do they have to do it while exercising? Jeez....I can barely breathe and walk..I mean, here I am, sweating like a whore in church on Sunday, and they are not even missing a beat of whatever little phone app they're playing with.


Although, after months of studying and watching (okay, okay, constant reader-) after days of studying and watching (Blogging with Integrity-yeah yeah yeah)....I took a page from the guy who yells at his treadmill as if it's a new recruit in this man's army!!!

I find myself silently encouraging my own treadmill along....urging it to go faster (the time clock, NOT the speed!), come on, baby, just ten more minutes...you can do it, you big hunk of steel....just make that little clock tick faster, faster, you can do it, little treadmill, just skip a few minutes on the old clock there.. faster, faster....

Yeah. And then I realized. I was trying to talk the treadmill into finishing prematurely. Like a 16 year old boy in the back seat of a 1966 mustard colored Chevy Nova on Band Night at the OBI South----

Really, mysuestories? Taking advantage of fitness equipment? Is this what our love of cheese has done to us?

I felt so dirty. And to make it worse? He didn't finish any sooner than any other time his clock was set for 45 minutes. In fact? I think the cool down was shorter than normal.

Sigh. I guess it wasn't good for him either.

Maybe tomorrow I'll come on to the stationary bicycles. That should make 'em sweat!

What's that, constant reader? Why yes, I did own a 1966 mustard colored Chevy Nova. Why do you ask?