- Plumber butt cracks
- The gym
- Bean sprouts
- Black ice
- Not getting mail service for 4 days in a row (thank you USPS)
- Sweaty gym equipment
- Venicen (and you can't fool me by putting it in chili and calling it beef either)
- The gym
- Doing poop patrol after The Beagles in great efforts to keep the yard free of dog turds (it's almost a full-time job these days)
- Weight lifting
- Anne Coulter
- Stationary bicycles
- Star Jones
- Water fountains
- The gym
And so it goes after week 1 at the gym. . .
The Butt Crack and Pit Smell Factory.
The Shower Stall Stench Fest
The Glistening Sweat-infested Machine Manor
The I'm-so-intimidated-get-me-out-of-here Hell Hole
Of course my efforts to be discreet by way of strategically selecting a machine in the back row so that I blend into things and people can't stare at me don't exactly pan out. I pick the one and only machine that creeks and groans every time I move on the stair steps. Good Lord, I have my iPod ear buds in jamming away to Bon Jovi in my own corner of the world, and I can hear the machine screetching and moaning over the more-than-necessary high volume of "Living on a Prayer". I'm living on a prayer alright. Praying the hottness next to me isn't internally laughing at the girl on the machine next to him who clearly weighs a little more than necessary and should have had a treatment done on her hair weeks ago as to avoid the 1.5 inch roots.
Moving onto the stationary bicycle. . . I select a bike that is again out of the line of focus of the row of hot boys I notice (and FYI, still outta my league). Any minute I expect Dallas Barbie to come prancing in to meet Dallas Ken and run off happily ever after - TOGETHER. Back to the bike. . . 3 minutes in and my ass hurts. Like, the seat is pretty big, but my ass is really hurting. I've got 27 more minutes to go. I'm on level 4 which seems pretty doable. Holy heck, things seem to be spinning out of control (humor me, folks). Sweat is pouring down like a rain shower in the middle of the day in the Amazon. I'm close to being out of breath and probably look like I'm in the middle of a panic attack. I can imagine some poor trainer might spot me across the way, take one look at my hot mess and grab a paper bag expecting me to have to breathe in and out of it any second now. And my ass still hurts. Who manufactures these things? People with no feeling in their lower extremities? Why can't it be comfortable and fluffy, like my own ass? If I were to invent something to save all of mankind, I'd invest a comfortable and fluffy stationary bike seat. You heard it here FIRST.
Bike escapade over. Now I have to climb a few flights of stairs to get out of this gym. Wait, I can't feel my legs. Panic engulfs me. More hot boys out of my league spotted in my line of vision. Oh crap-o-la - I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Wait, was that an extra fat roll on my back? When the heck did that grow? Why is it obviously that much more apparent at the gym in front of all these people? Oh right, the hideous florescent lights that show every gross detail on my body. Oh no, did I just see an extra ring around the belly? Holy Moses, when did that creep there? My mirrors at home must be severely lying to me. Huge regret for eating that cookie with M&Ms last night sets in.
I leave the gym in one piece feeling anxiously mortified only to do it all over again tomorrow. Project Ryan is going to remain in full effect.
I hate the gym. Have you heard?