Thursday, July 10, 2008

Glisten up!

Alright, twatwaffles! Here's a lesson in motherfuckin' gym etiquette, so pay close attention. The ever elusive elliptical is the most desired piece of sadistic plastic device where I workout. There's always a line. Little hamster legs churn and pony tails bounce. I've been known to wait/waste up to thirty minutes, like a JACKASS.

Standing in line is a skilled art form. You must make your presence known to all the other vultures that want to make you fat by hogging your machine. A precise choreography of stretching, hamstrings, those cross arm thingies, lunges, sprawling out your shit, sitting on the floor.

Whilst performing all of the above, you pay utmost attention and scan the room to spot any potential poachers. Do this like a paranoid meth head, like the girl in the exorcist. Now that you're stretching and scanning, you must also keep one eye on the fuckers that are hogging the elliptical. Take note of the degree of their sweatiness, either they're heading toward the finish line, or just really out of shape. Nonetheless, watch their backs the bigger the Rorschach swampass stain, the better your chance!

Be sure not to be distracted by slackers who roll to a stop to answer their fucking cell phone, peruse their mp3 collection, or to take a leisurely drink of water. These decoys appear finished only to start ellipting {? what is the action word for using an elliptical?} crushing your little resting bpm heart. Don't let this get you down. Dust yourself off and mourn later. You need to be at your best right now.

A good time passer is to watch the jiggling cellulite jubilee in front of your bleary eyes. Their movements almost resemble marionette legs, but more dimply of course. The real mystery are those skinny to normal sized girls whose legs look as though they've been taking an hour long shit on a toilet seat with marbles and shotgun pellets hot glued to it. Skinny-fat. I don't get it. But, I think I might be a skinny-fat. But I digress, more on that later... Be wary not to stare too long or you may get hypnotized and miss an opportunity or get paranoid that the back of your legs also look like they've been spanked by garden rake. Nooo! STAY SHARP! ALERT!

When you begin to fall down the dimpled rabbit hole. Pull yourself out. Focus on something else, besides the ticking clock. Sometimes I get bored and assess their choice of workout attire. Gym clothes can say a lot about a person. Some shirts have ironic slogans (Iraq, you break), some make you feel old (Class of 2018), some have Greek letters, some are nostalgic (Co-Ed Naked Whatever) some just don't make sense. For instance, today I saw a shirt that read, "Westwood Girl's Rugby" with an owlesque critter biting into a football? with a banner that said, "Let's get our bitch on." Now, I'm all for gettin' my bitch on, talking smack, gossiping... but how it relates to rugby, I'll never know.

The other main article of clothery to inspect are shorts. Some shorts are usually toooooooooohoooo short. Like, vagina strangling, yeast farming, camel toe splitting, disaster short. These often come with retarded text screened across the arse. JUICY, SEXY, ASU, and on and on. Butt messages, I do hold a certain contempt for them. Butt, what if they had useful messages plastered on asses? Liiiiiike, CALL YOUR MOM, WASH YOUR HANDS, or DON'T FORGET TO UNPLUG THE TOASTER (for the obese). I could go on and on.

Okay you can do all of this. Stare at strangers, analyze their daily sodium intake by their sweat stains, count cellulite constellations, make assumptions about their camel toe. "Does she have daddy issues and an endless supply of cranberry juice?" Stretch, stretch, stretch until you tear something, anything... a muscle, your pants, whatever, just fucking stretch goddamn it. Puff out your chest. Mark your territory. Piss on the next machine if worst comes to worst. Do it all...


Such an action automatically forfeits your place in line. You cannot pump iron while you wait. NO. Just no. Everybody knows this right? One would dimpleassume! So I'm doing all of the above, keeping a good three feet between me and the machines. Real stretching, but mostly fake stretching. Posturing, grunting, staring, leering.....

....Then suddenly my moment arrives! A little sweaty brunette churns to a stop and goes to get a towel to wipe down the machine. Here I go! All of my hard work has paid off! I've won the fitness lottery! As I'm ready to pounce, some fucking twat buzzes from behind and casually hops on to the machine, ahem, MY machine.

The exchange goes a little something like this:
me(pointing at the imaginary velvet rope and queue): EXUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEEEE! {and by me, i mean you}! I've been waaaaaaaaaaiting!
she: I've been waiting too, back there.
me: BACK WHERE???????? I didn't fu--I didn't see you!!
she (cowering a little): Uhhhhh, sorry. Is it okay if I just go for like ten minutes?
me: Whatever, but you need to learn the rules of forfeiture, no cuts!

What I really wanted to do was rip her off the machine by her ponytail, instead I was the bigger person, because she was the bigger person and probably needed it more than I did. How charitable, right? You can call me motherfuckingtheresa from now on. Steaming mad, I go back to the front of my imaginary line, arms crossed, face red. Eighteen seconds later, another machine opens up. I climb aboard, but can't seem to shake the feeling of eyes searing into the back of my legs.

ps. The size of this post has snowballed out of control. Don't evah say I don write choo!

1 comment:

  1. You don't have a sign-up sheet in your gym? I do. And it's a 20min limit on each machine during the busy hours. Maybe you should suggest your gym do that too.


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