SuburbaGym is filled with a combination of trophy wives and half dead elderly, especially in the middle of the day. I skipped out from the office and hit the gym, hoping to sneak in some quick cardio during lunch. I know. I know. Unheard of.
Anyway, I was shocked to find this rarely packed gym full of people, with two categories of people dominating the demographics. First, we have the pregnant and gorgeous wives with nothing to do all day but get more gorgeous and more pregnant. The one I was chatting with while she walked around the locker room stark raving naked was obviously a Russian mail order bride, and kudos to whomever selected HER out of a catalog, because she’s adorable and really coming along with her English.
The other large grouping at SuburbaGym was super old dudes in khaki pants and flesh toned, Velcro shoes. Using any type of weight machine after them meant having to switch the resistance from like, 4 lbs. to 100. I almost wanted to ask what the point was, taking up all this room in MY SubrubaGym when they could just do curls with a paperback. I was afraid some of them would drop dead right there on the leg press. I’m convinced at least one of them fell asleep on the ab-roller.
Because I was going back to work, I had to shower. In public. They might as well have a huge window on the wall and bleacher seats on the other side, we’re so forced to promenade around like prostitutes in the windows of Amsterdam’s red light district. Obviously, I picked the nook that seemed the most empty, emerging from the shower with my towel wrapped around me like a straight jacked, trying not to look at both the perfect female specimens on either side of me, but also the geriatric bags of wrinkles in front of me. I’ll never be one, and I’m doomed to become the other. They should put a therapists’ office at the gym it so promotes self-doubt and panic attacks.
So there I am, in my little, hidden corner of the locker room, convinced I’ve found the once space where I can adjust my underwire in private and as soon as I drop my towel, the littlest, Lilliputian lady in a do-rag and her birthday suit marches right over.
“Hi there! Who’d have thought in this big, empty locker room, we pick lockers right next to each other! It’s meant to be!”
With that, she proceeds to dry every, hidden inch of her thousand year old body, proudly stretching all the way down to her feet and scrubbing that towel in between her dinosaur toes. I can only imagine the look on my face, as I hid my eyes and rapidly dressed, not noticing until I was back at work and at my desk that in my judgmental haste, I put my bra on inside out…