Last night I went to the gym. I was late. It was crowded. I saw yet another pair of pink PINK pants on a hot young girl. Either they like the way they feel or they like the way they make their asses look, because there is a pair of these on at least one girl every single night.
While I was there I saw a woman I haven't seen in at least 5 years. She and I used to work out at the very first and only gym in My Little Redneck Town back before a storm blew it down. She looked the same - good. I know I don't look the same - not so good. At one point she walked around to where I was and stood right in front of me. It was noticeable because I was facing away from everyone and not where you would normally see anyone standing. Even so, she had walked around, stood in front of me looking past me, and then walked by me again and began working out next to me.
The thing about her that is so remarkable, other than that she is a hottie, is the amazing resemblance she has to the guy I used to work out with back in high school. I know, I just said she is a hottie, but bear with me for a minute here. I used to lift weights and kickbox with a guy who is apparently descended from the Vikings. He's Norse or Norwegian or a descendant of the Swedish bikini team or whatever. He's got blonde hair and blonde eyebrows and blonde eyelashes and sharp cheekbones and brown eyes, etc. He's 5'9" and a former gymnast, so he's of course built like a gymnast. Her features are almost identical, except she's closer to 5'6" and her blonde hair is long. And she has hips and breasts.
My former workout partner had a sister who was the town hottie. She used to hang out with My Youngest Sister and they partied together. They partied hard. My Sister, the wild-child of the family that couldn't be stopped by anyone or anything, couldn't keep up with her. They had even tried being roommates at one point, but had to split because My Sister couldn't deal with the constant flowing river of guys coming in and out to see The Viking Goddess 24 hours a day.
Now don't get me wrong, My Sister got her share. But she didn't have the genetics of The Viking Goddess. Picture Pamela Anderson pre-implants and pre-Tommy Lee and that is basically how my former workout partner's sister, My Sister's roommate, looked. She got a LOT of attention and she used every bit of it to her advantage. So the point is, a female version of the guy I used to work out with is not a bad thing.
So, getting back to this woman I recognized, she never said a word to me, and looking into her eyes as I did (yes, I honest to God look women in the eyes sometimes even when they're hot) I wondered if maybe she can't see well, but doesn't bother with glasses while working out because you don't need to see. I nearly ran into her while I was putting a weight back on the rack and she was getting one off, so I spoke to her.
"Didn't you used to work out at the very first gym here, back before it blew down in that storm?" I asked her.
She smiled and said, "yeah, I usually work out at Lifestyles in Bartlett now."
I happily responded, "I went to the new one that opened across the street. It was just closer."
"Yeah, I tried that one, but it just wasn't ... eh ..." she shook her head and frowned. "I didn't like it."
She went back to exercising, so I headed over to the abs area. One rule of the gym is that if you're talking to someone who is serious about working out, especially if they clearly have muscles and came to lift like she does, if they're done talking to you then go the hell away and let them work out. Just in case you didn't know that.
There was nothing remarkable about this workout. I did my thing. There were some annoying new people. There were three ghetto people who obviously came in for their first time.
You know how some black people in the ghetto seem to like making loud self-important speeches, like "woman, I am THE MAN and I am TELLING YOU that we must all JOIN TOGETHER and support the United Negro College Fund and EAT our VEGETABLES so that we can be STRONGER ... (pause for effect with lots of hand waving throughout) .. as a PEOPLE. Can I get an 'Amen'?" I mean, this is what rap music is all about, is it not?
Yeah, so there were 3 of these loud, very self-important Ghetto Children in there and one of them fancied himself a little Jesse Jackson. You know how Eddie Murphy likes to play a character of an old black man who marches around ranting and preaching as if everything he says is very important? Yeah, it was just exactly like that. He was going off, preaching and ranting, yelling and telling, imagining himself a fat, weak, professional trainer as he yelled at the girl who was with them, "COME ON! TWO MORE, I WANT TWO MORE! PUSH IT! PUSH IT! Ah woman, you don't even KNOW what you can do. You gotta PUSH IT. We gotta be STRONG."
Yeah, not a one of them knew shit about working out, but this guy was convinced that a lot of yelling was a very important part of it somehow.
The girl, for her part, was a good sport about it all. She was trying to go with it and be a part of the insanity. I could hear all three of them no matter where I went in the gym.
At the end of my workout I got on the treadmill to run. I was next to a beautiful girl who had been running for awhile. She had been looking at me out of the corner of her eye while I did abs. And I was looking at her with both eyes straight on because she was directly in front of me and good-looking and sort of looking at me. And what else was there to look at? So now I was next to her and we were both running.
I hadn't run a half a mile before my leg started to bother me. I stopped and tried to shake it out. Then I ran some more. Then my hip just started hurting like a mother. I have no idea what was wrong, but it felt like someone had knifed me. So I reluctantly got off the treadmill, sadly leaving the Beautiful Braless Brunette to run alone. I went over to the ellipticals. I did 3 miles while staring mindlessly at "Top Model" on the TV and wondered about my hip, which wasn't bothering me in the least on the elliptical machine. Next to me was some guy.
Yeeha.
Meanwhile, the Ghetto Children had come over and gotten on the machines just behind me. Of course I could hear every word they said.
"FASTER! You gotta go FASTER," the Preacher shouted at the Girl. "I don't want to see this drop below 4!"
Apparently some women were glaring at him, or else he suddenly felt self-conscious because then he said, "I mean US. WE both need to stay above 4." Now he was referring to himself and the other Ghetto Boy.
Then Ghetto Girl asked him "why are we doing this? I'm tired."
And then he oh-so-foolishly responded, "because you're FAT!"
Looooong deadly pause. It was suddenly very quiet throughout the entire gym.
I was silently thinking to myself "Oh my God, you did NOT just say that to her. You are a dead preacher man. She is going to beat your ass."
He wisely, if not quickly enough, tried to recover.
"I mean, we ALL are. We're ALL FAT and we gotta get in shape!" he shout-preached in a sudden reversal.
I listened for the sound of a Mad Black Woman beating some serious ass while screaming "OH-NO-YOU-DID-NOT-JUST-SAY-THAT-TO-ME-YOU-MUTHER-FUCKING-SON-OF-A ..." You know what I mean. You would have been waiting for it, too, if you had been there.
But there was nothing. Just silence. No screams. No angry crying. No whacking or slapping or sounds of running feet or pounding fists.
Then she laughed nervously and said something about being tired and sweaty.
"Man, you dodged a bullet, you fool," I was thinking as I attempted to psychically transmit my thoughts to his young brain. "You NEVER say that to a woman. NEVER FOR ANY REASON! NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!"
Yeah, so they were very young. She was shy and quiet for a loud ghetto person, not yet strong enough to blast this fool with her large poweful mouth and vocal chords while pounding blood and bone out of his punching-bag-shaped body. As for the Preacher, he was seriously overcompensating for his awkwardness by talking too much and of course too loud. I think they were all related because no way would she take that from a boy who wasn't her brother. No way in hell.
Finally The Ghetto Preacher and His Siblings left, without any bloodshed or fist fights, without any women leaping on The Preacher and murdering him or anything. Ah, silence!
"Top Model" cut the white girl who slouched, as I had silently predicted they would. Twiggy was right. She wasn't remarkable. Then again, several of the women weren't remarkable in any way, shape, or form. Still, she wasn't a model and wasn't going to make it anyway. And she was white.
I got on the stationary bike. I rode fast, trying to both push and pull with my legs like you're supposed to do. But I've clearly forgotten some details about proper riding because I never did slip into a groove. The Beautiful Braless Brunette was still running on the treadmill during all of this. If my hip hadn't bothered me I would be running with her. I probably would have been so inspired I would have run 7 or 8 miles just because of it. But it was not to be.
I got off the bike and stretched for several minutes, watching the Brunette from my spot on the floor. She was still looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
I changed clothes and started heading out the door. Meanwhile, the Beautiful Brunette was still running, still looking around, still looking fabulous and lonely. I went home for a shower.
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