One of life's great tragedies, other than the fact that if I plan to live an elastic-waist-denim-free life, I need to try really fucking hard, is that there are too few treadmills. No matter where I've gone (other than my brother's fancy and subsidized club) there's always a line for the goddamn treadmills. Lord help the poor soul that doesn't notice said line and leaps at the suddenly free 'mill. It's like Gym Faux Pas Number 423 and I won't be a party to that humiliation.
I'll settle for an eliptical. It's less lame than a stationary bike, I can tell you that much.
So tonight, I'm jamming away to my "Cardio Mix 2" when I saw an enthusiastic gay marching my way. Cheerily, he hopped on the eliptical right next to me, offering an anticipatory look that implied his desire to chat.
As my brother once asked on a pan-Pacific flight in which Jason the flight attendant and I bonded, exactly what the fuck is it about me that's like a flashing neon sign proclaiming "Fag Hag, Open 24 Hours."
Hey Homo, I don't want to chat about leggings and Cher and South Pacific when I'm plugging away at minute 23 on this torture device.
He began listening to what I can only imagine to be techno, marching away with a big smile on his face and an occasional glance my way. Allow me to admit, "Cardio Mix 2" is the greatest Cardio Mix of all time. Why? Because I will listen to shit you haven't thought of since 5th Grade and once you remember it, you'll be all, "Up my incline, trainer!"
"We Didn't Start the Fire" anyone? Maybe a little "Hip to Be Square"? Then we segue to "Electric Avenue"? Yeah, what's up. It is awesome. And the only reason I ever make it to the dreaded minute 23. I'm always like, "Well, let me see what's next." An then it'll be "Walking on Broken Glass" and I'll breeze on through to minute 37.
Also, when I work out, I'm either looking at my arms and legs hoping to watch them get instantly thinner or staring at myself in the mirror, pretending I'm in my own female-empowered video montage, where I'm going through a really difficult divorce with a high powered asshole who's just left me for someone younger, prettier and dumb.
Hey, whatever works, right?
Anyway, so caught up in "We Didn't Start the Fire" was I, I inadvertently made eye contact with Happy Gay in the mirror. Oh no!
Oh my god, why are you talking to me???
I gave him an exhausted, exasperated look. "Hi."
"Were you in yoga yesterday?"
I now had to remove my earphones.
"Um, no. I haven't been here since Saturday."
"Oh my god, really! If I don't come every day, I like, die."
I hate you, Tiffany.
But because I'm plagued by Catholic guilt, I chose this opportunity to compliment him. "Are you nuts? Look how hot you are. Go home and have a BonBon."
From that moment on, me and my divorce were history.
Bitch even walked me out.
Oh god, I don't want a gym buddy. I don't need another excuse to blow off all that is necessary. And yet, I think I may have just inadvertently added a new gay to my queer, nelly mix.
And trust me, there's no what this queer knows any hot, employed straights...