Warning: MAJOR rant ahead!
With that preface aside, I can guilt-free launch into the ridiculousness which engulfed my mind for at least a solid hour. As I reached the gym and plodded up the stairs to the torturemill, err..I mean TREADmill, I propped up my magazine and put on my headphones. I began my run to the melodic hum of Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" (The kick-off jam is croosh to a good run! It totally sets the mood) no sooner did a portly gentleman hop of the treadmill right next to me. Nevermind the fact that it's like 10 am and there's, um I don't know..like EVERY other treadmill open, going completely unused, but whatever. I politely look over and smile before I silently curse him for being an IDIOT and opting to workout RIGHT next to me, when I notice his T-shirt. And want to kick him in the groin. Before I go further, let me first say that my gym attire is no couture collection. In no way am I decked out in Under Armor or Nike workout wear. I am certainly not saying that I flaunt falls latests runway trends to the treadmill, no, I wear your average running shorts and a tank top (usually a cheap one!). Ok, back to my treadmill BFF, he is wearing an "I (heart) Oreos" T-shirt. What?!?! He is wearing an OREOs shirt...to the GYM!?! WTF??? I mean, thats like wearing a Marlboro shirt to a caner ward. Oreo's are what got my fat ass in this gym-mandating predicament in the first place!! And then to have to push through a grueling 6 miles next to a man blatently professing his love for sugary, carby, goodness? Douche bag! And to make matter worse? He's skinny. I officially hate him. Bastard, bragger! I could look past the fact that he insists on working out RIGHT next to me...WALKING. I could look past his annoying flipping of the newspaper that inevitably resulted in running-mode interference. but I CANNOT, cannot-with-a-capital "C" look past his open proclimation, at the gym no less, that he has a love affair with the ultimate diet-vixen: Oreo-friggin-cookies. May fatness strike his thighs!
Whew, ok, back to me. Another gym-fueled rant boils down to the inordinant amount of sweat I produce on the daily. Let me be blunt here. I am not one of those girls who goes to the gym fully-clad in eyeliner and lipstick. No, sir-ree-bob. It's just me, my New Balances and a sports bra (the cheap kind, thank you very much). My hair rests in a "bun-like" rats nest atop my head, and flat-ironing my bangs? OUT OF THE QUESTION. Let's face it, I'm a beast. Thats how I roll. To those of you familiar with high school biology, there is a term used to describe the process the human body goes through in order to regulate itself and maintain constant internal conditions: homeostasis. Put simply, your body is a well-oiled machine that gets hot when you work out and produces small droplets of water on your skin (aka Sweat) to cool you down. Now, back to me being a beast. I can run a mile in six minutes flat. I haul ass. When I go to the gym I run about 6.5 miles. 6.5 miles of vigorous intervals, 6.5 miles of internally telling myself to shut-up and not punk out. Needless to say, my haul-ass regime isn't pretty. Nor sexy, nor cute. I run hard and it shows. Primarily in the form of a sweat drenched tank top. Pretty standard right? Apparently not. Never fails, some nit-wit just HAS to open his/her mouth and comment on "what a sweaty girl I am". Ok, #1) "Girl" I'm 23 thank-you-very-little. I'm not some teeny bopper selling magazine subscriptions for a school fundraiser. Please try and refrain from talking to me as such. Unless you plan on placing me on Santa's Lap and asking what I want for Christmas (everything, in case your wondering) #2) Um, HELLO! It's a gym, you know, a fitness facility, whose sole purpose of existence lies in getting people to sweat! It's not like I'm a hooker in fish-net stalkings walking up to the Holy Alter about to receive the Body of Christ. I'm a runner, AT THE GYM, who sweats. I really don't think its that inconceivable, astonishing, or magical to warrant so much attention. Its perfectly commonplace to work your ass off and sweat like you have to fit into your prom dress. And that's what I do. Minus the prom dress. So, next time I'm at the gym and I get the critical "Wow, you're sweaty" comment, I will resist the urge to thank Captain Obvious and instead reach for a towel and picture my skinny jeans.
1 comment:
You describe your workouts so well that just by reading it, I feel like I worked out too. Hmmm, why are my thighs still this big if we run so hard??? Could it be the carbs that I stuff down my face on a daily basis then sit on the couch to read your blog and call it a workout??? Ya think??? Just sayin...
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