witness

This morning while I was at the gym, something very significant happened to me.

The Event occurred when I was doing some sort of exercise that I’m pretty sure made my biceps especially intimidating, which is something that is Very Important for reasons I really don’t know.

I was listening to some Wu-Tang and thinking about how they could probably solve the economic crisis if they wanted to because in high school whenever shit would go wrong I’d smoke tons of weed and listen to them and magically my problems would disappear, when I saw Sassy Old Woman out of the corner of my eye.

Some background on Sassy: she is there everyday at the same time as me, just like The Singer and Grandpa. She is somewhere between 85 and 457 years old, and she wears sports bras and tight workout pants.

Now that you have a mental picture, let me continue.  I turned and saw her sitting down, and lo and behold there it was: Sassy Old Woman’s butt was hanging out.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a Butt Man, and I’m sure back in 1734 she was probably pretty hot, but this was not something I enjoyed seeing.

Sassy Old Woman was leaning forward, and her iPod, which she hooks into her pants, was dragging down the back of her pants, so the entire gym – and I – got a glimpse of her butt and her ancient crack, all in one amazing display.

Maybe if Sassy wore clothes like any normal woman at they gym does, this would not have happened.  But it did, and now my eyes and mind are forever scarred.

I cannot unsee what I have seen.

In fact, right now, as I type these words, all I see is Sassy’s butt crack.  I wish I could continue this post, but as you can tell, I have a very serious issue here.  I think I might need to go home sick.

unbelievable

As I was getting dressed to leave the gym this morning, despite being lost in thought about why I consume Sun Chips like a ShawWow sucks up water,  I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two guys a couple lockers down from me.

They were discussing why the sauna was closed, and one of the guys mentioned how he thought it was broken, but his friend insisted it was because “people were doing weird stuff in there.”

The friend then added that he didn’t understand why people would want to have sex in such a hot place, and the other guy laughed and I was about to interject a witty joke about how people who live in the desert probably never have sex but then thought I better not because I don’t think people actually live in the desert.

There was a lull in the conversation right then, but one of the men broke it by saying, “I certainly wouldn’t have sex with a guy anyway – hahaha!”

And that was it.

The two men just died over this, like they had just said something so illogical it just had to be laughed at.

Imagine…  Two guys…  Having sex!

Why that’s just absurd!  Why would they want to do that?  It just doesn’t make any sense at all.  I mean, two men talking about sports or punching stuff, now that is Normal and not to be laughed at – but sex?

That’s like insisting Paul Walker is an underrated actor – it’s completely ridiculous!

By the time the laughter between the guys finally died down, I was all dressed and ready to leave, so that’s exactly what I did.

Now as I sit at my desk I know that I’m going to have a good day, because there are two guys out there who are certainly Not Gay, and that just makes me feel better about things.

unnecessary

This morning while I was on the treadmill and I couldn’t help but wonder if my knees were too small for my legs.  

I was all set to write a post about that thrilling observation, but luckily for you I saw a feature on the news that caught my eye:  Apparently there’s a gym uptown that encourages its patrons to take a nap after the yoga class that is taught there.

There were shots of people being tucked in after the class, then testimony from the instructors about how beneficial it was for people to sleep and, in essence, drool on the floor while dreaming about whether they really do like grapes or just think they like grapes.

Well this is just a brilliant plan.

Look, I know about 98.7% of my readers are women, and you might not want to hear this – but yoga is fucking boring enough as it is, telling people to take a nap afterward is kind of redundant.

Yes, yoga is difficult, but it is mind-numbingly boring.  

You do a move and then you sit there.

You do a move and then you sit there.

And on and on until you’re so bored you start thinking the old woman’s butt in front of you isn’t that bad.  But maybe that’s just me.

Having people take naps after yoga is like telling someone to watch Renée Zellweger movies, you’re just encouraging stupidity.

Why doesn’t the gym just give out complimentary cheeseburgers at the door?

If you’re going to take a nap after working out, just stay home.  Okay?  Leave the gym for the rest of us who are serious about working out, especially those of us who may or may not need extra time for bulking up their knees.

up, up and away

This morning as I was getting dressed to leave the gym, I noticed a guy who was, despite all Social Norms, wearing a denim shirt and jeans.

Of course I started to dissect this man because I write a blog and it is my duty to ponder the irrelevant things in life.

My first impression of this man was that he is the do or die type.  Black or white, yes or no, go big or go home.  There is no “gray area” for this man.

He knew that today was Jeans Friday, and he took Jeans Friday and punched it in its face.

I imagine he woke up this morning, strutted to his closet and decided that today was the day he’d finally show everyone at work What He Was About.  Other Jeans Fridays had come and gone, and he was always left with feeling as if he could’ve done so much more.

So today, when his alarm went off, he slipped on his jeans (stonewashed, of course) then slipped on his button-down denim shirt (business casual), and made sure that today would be regret-free.  Well, as regret-free a day as a man who wears denim head to toe can have.

My second impression was that this man is a super hero, and Fridays just happen to be Denim Man’s busiest day, so he has to get an early start.  But that doesn’t really make sense.

Or does it?

more than you asked for

I’m not one to do follow up posts, mainly because my life is completely disjointed and anything that happens in succession is purely accidental and mostly boring, but I just have to add on to The Towel Situation that I wrote about on Wednesday.

I know – you are beyond excited.  

In fact, this is probably the best day of your life aside from that time you made out with that ugly chick and no one found out.

Anyway, this morning there was simply a handwritten note explaining that there were no towels at my gym, even though they were still supposed to be provided until next week.

I decided to go in anyway because I have time to kill before work, so I just hoped for the best.

As I went through my workout I gathered from the talk of the gym that the towel company wasn’t getting paid, so they came early this morning and took back the clean towels that were at the gym.  Rumor also was that people were stealing towels off the truck, basically acting like wild animals grabbing at one piece of dead carcass.  

Of course I was extremely upset that I missed that, because nothing says fun like watching adults attack other adults for items wanted.  Just ask those people who trampled that Wal Mart worker.  What a blast!

After I got enough gossip and had finished my work out, I decided to leave and finally deal with how I was going to dry off after my shower.

My solution?  My undershirt.

I used my undershirt to dry off after the shower and now I am at the office without a shirt on underneath my dress shirt, which happens to be white with thin black stripes.

White is kind of a see through fabric.

My nipples are showing through my shirt is what I’m trying to say.

crime drama

This morning, as I entered the gym ready to lift heavy objects lots and lots of times for no real reason, I noticed a sign that informed members that there would be no more towels provided starting a week from today.

Obviously this concerns me, because I’m already filling my quota of Naked Man Time in the locker room when there are towels, so god only knows what it’s going to be like when there aren’t towels.

But what really struck me was that the reason they’re taking away the towel service is that towels are being taken from the gym, and it is losing money because of it.

You know that saying “You learn something new every day?”  Well, today I learned that there is a man roaming this great city that apparently has a deep love for towels.  So much so that he steals them.

A Towel Bandit, if you will.

Somewhere in a tiny apartment – perhaps in Queens, maybe in Brooklyn, or maybe even in the city – thousands of extremely scratchy, white Bally Sports Club towels can be found.

The Towel Bandit, I imagine, must have been a Real Bandit at one time, and has since retired and moved on to heisting towels to fill the rush he used to get from robbing banks.

One day he was yelling “Just give me all the cash and no one gets hurt!” and the next day he was quietly slipping three towels into his gym bag, smiling to himself and thinking, “This will bring the entire system to a standstill!”

My only hope in this entire debacle is to somehow figure out who the Towel Bandit is and befriend him. Then hopefully, one day he will bring me to his towel hoarding center, and we can laugh and laugh at the sheer amount of towels before us.

I will declare, “That my friend, is a lot of towels!  A grand amount indeed!” and he will agree, bellowing, “Ha ha!  Oh the tales I could tell you of my towel thieving!”

Then I’d probably leave because, you know, it’s kind of weird to steal towels.

there you are

Somehow, despite my best attempts to not interact with anyone at my gym and spend my time lost in Toto’s obsession with a continent, an old guy has befriended me.

It happened swiftly, so I had no chance to act like I didn’t hear him.

New Friend: [Approaching me while I was getting ready to leave the gym] “You’re in here everyday huh?”

Me: [Stunned, I look around for something to bury my face in, but find nothing aside from my dirty boxer briefs] “Yeah, well, just Monday through Friday.  I think five days is enough.”

New Friend: “That’s great, seeing the younger generation working out is really good.  I’m John.”

Me: [Defeat sets in] “I’m Chris, nice to meet you.  John is my middle name, actually.”

New Friend: [Excitedly] “Oh?  My middle name is Chris!”

Me: [In my head: "Well life is just crazy!"] “Ha, that’s funny!  See you around then.”

That’s how it all started.

And you know, whatever.  It’s fine.  He’s a nice guy.  But the thing is I’ve never recognized him after that first meeting, and he always recognizes me, which leads to some awkwardness that I don’t feel like dealing with.

Every time he sees me he says “Hi Chris!” and I’m always surprised by it.  So I immediately scramble to blurt out “John!” which I’m sure seems odd to him and those around us considering I’m not actually looking at anyone.

But since he always seems to remember me, I feel like I have to get his name out quickly, somehow fooling him into thinking I noticed him first.

When I don’t yell out “John,” and he completely catches me off guard, it’s like he’s my Dad and I’ve disappointed him by taking an ugly girl to the prom and then not even getting her to put out.

He says hello and then I say hello after stuttering and thinking “Where the hell did he come from?  Did he just appear in front of me???”  Then, while we exchange pleasantries, he frowns.  It’s the frowning that really upsets me, because I don’t want to let John down dammit!

But I do.

Every single time.

I really don’t think he’s fooled by me yelling his name when my back is turned to him, so I’m going to have to come with a different approach.

Maybe next time I’ll simply look at him and say, “Alright, look John. I can’t remember what you look like. Maybe it’s because I’m busy trying to make my muscles look bigger than they are by shifting my poses in the mirror and maybe it’s because you look exactly like every other old white dude with his shorts on too high, but I just can’t.  So let’s just cut it off or you’re going to have to start wearing a bright orange construction vest.”

I bet he opts for the vest.  That’s so something John would do.

float like a butterfly

In the spirit of Learning Something New every 15 years or so, I’m now learning how to box.

Every day at the gym, I run, I lift and then I box.  Not with other people – I’m not some kind of idiot. I just hit the bag.

It is a lot of fun and a great workout and blah, blah, blah.

I could go on and on about how it improves your coordination, endurance and strength, but let’s be honest – I’m in it for the nickname.

Everyone knows the best part about boxing is the handle you get when you start learning the sport. Granted, I’m not actually fighting anyone other than a large, heavy, leather-bound bag, so I don’t really need a nickname, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want one.

I just want something to recite in my head as I hit that bag: “Chris The ________ My Last Name!”  (I’m not giving you my last name because then I know you’ll stalk me and probably ask for my autograph on your forehead and then we’ll get drinks and I’ll make you pay after you tell me you stole a pair of my boxer briefs.)

I don’t want it to be something too cheesy either, so I’m immediately crossing out The Destroyer, Hits You Hard and Iron Fists.

Yes, those were some I thought of this morning, and no, I am not more creative than that.

I also want it to be something that really strikes fear into that bag, because trust me, even though it’s an inanimate object, it’s heavy and it wears you out.  Kind of like trying to figure out Memento.

Of course I have to rule out anything to do with blogging, because I just don’t think “The Meme Poster” or “Obsessive Stats Checker” really have the effect I’m looking for.

I’ve thought of several more since I started writing this, and I have one now that I think I like.

Ready?

“Prime Cut.”

Oh snap!

You love it don’t you???

Think about it – it works on so many levels.  First, I’m a vegetarian, so there’s irony or something literary at work there and second (and the best reason) I deliver Grade A punches sucka!

Man, I am a genius or at the very least someone with too much time on his hands.

Okay, probably the latter, but really, could you do any better?

I can’t wait until tomorrow so I can tell the bag about my new nickname.  I will probably not tell the people training me, though.  I don’t want to make them jealous or anything.

you learn something new everyday

This morning at the gym I had a revelation:  I am not a big fan of people.

I’ve always kind of known this, but as I was busy acting like I knew what I was doing with this weird benchpress-like thingy, I heard this guy grunting extremely loud as he lifted a dumbbell – and at that moment I thought to myself, “Man, people really just piss me off.”

The thing about this guy was that his grunting was not just the normal kind of grunting.  He was yelling and I could hear it over the Belinda Carlisle playing on my iPod, and one thing you never do, you never – ever – get in the way of me and my Belinda Carlisle.

I put my music on pause to take in the full scene, and it got better when I actually saw him, because he was exactly what I was expecting.

He had a weight belt on, some loose at the top, tapered at the bottom cotton pants, a neon green tank top that did not cover his nipples because it was so small and he was sucking on a lollipop.  

A fucking lollipop!

You could tell he thought the lollipop was what the ladies really loved about him, because he kept taking it out and looking around, then putting it back in his mouth as he bobbed his mullet-covered head to his music.

And then of course, there was the grunting.

Every time he lifted the wieght, veins popped out of places that I don’t think you’re supposed to have veins and he would let out a “Yeeeaaaargh!!!”

I really just don’t fucking care for people who do that.

There is no need for grunting that loud.  If you have to grunt that loud, surprise! That means the weight is too heavy for you! 

No one cares that you can lift an 85 pound dumbbell – because you’re not even doing it right!  If you were you wouldn’t look like your head was about to explode while you were doing it.

It just doesn’t make any sense.

I watched the stupid fuck for about ten minutes, and then went back to my workout.

I was glad he came along because maybe I would never have realized that I really don’t like people.

Although I’m willing to bet I would have figured it out eventually.

age is nothing but a number

The last time I wrote about one of the regulars at my gym, it was The Singer. Just this morning The Singer was belting out, “Lose My Breath” by Destiny’s Child and loving every minute of it.

Today though, I want to tell you about Grandpa.

Grandpa is somewhere between 134 and 187 years old and is about as tall as a garbage can.

He wears the exact same clothes every single day and he does not wash them. I know he doesn’t wash them because he has body odor strong enough to peel the paint off the walls and maybe make me vomit when I walk by.

I try not to though, because for some reason people generally don’t like vomit when they’re working out.

Grandpa also has a unique way of lifting. Oh yes, he lifts. He lifts like every rep keeps his dear friend the grim reaper from taking his skeletal body away from the bench press.

And his lifting style is basically to go as fast as he can.

It is an incredible thing to watch.

This little old man, rapidly firing tricep extensions like he was daring you, just daring you to do the same. I imagine he probably looks around at all of us younger guys and thinks, “I’m not dead yet motherfuckers!”

Because of this, I don’t mess with Grandpa. I let him stink up the place and do his thing.

But I was always kind of unsure how to feel about him until this morning.

I was getting a drink from the water fountain in the locker room before leaving for work, when I saw Grandpa waddle over to a stall.

With my head down, I heard the click of the stall door, and then as I looked up, I saw Grandpa look into the stall and say, “Oh! Excuse me!” Then close the door. Obviously he had just walked in on someone dropping the kids off at the pool.

Most people would be embarrassed by this, and rightfully so. Seeing another man take a dump can be quite traumatic.

But not Grandpa.

As I turned to leave the locker room, I heard Grandpa laughing.

“Heh, heh, heh, heh.”

I looked over at him and he had the widest smile on his face. Grandpa thought it was hilarious and that made it official: He was awesome.

If he can duck the grim reaper over the weekend and I get to see him once again on Monday, I may just shake his hand.

Because not only is Grandpa stinking the entire gym up and lifting weights like a man possessed, he is laughing at other people.

And that is something I can always get down with.