The Gym Redux

Oh, yeah, now I remember what I wanted to tell you. It was this stuff about the gym:

To the lady who was on her bluetooth while on the elliptical trainer next to me: Have you ever heard the term “bluetool”? How about “bluetard”? No? Well, I want you to listen to me anyway. Take that stupid thing out of your ear and listen. Here’s a newsflash, sister: You look like a moron. No, you don't look cool or important. No, you don't look like you're up on the latest technology. You look like a self-important, self-absorbed class A moron. And guess what! No one wants to hear your boorish prattle. No, really. No one wants to hear your boorish prattle even if it concerns the answer to the earthshaking question of what your daughter-in-law’s contribution to the upcoming potluck is going to be. So can it, lady.

To the woman at the gym on the elliptical trainer with three magazines, a water bottle, a full-sized beach towel, watching a movie on her iPod: Six items? You need to get a grip. That is entirely too many pseudo-security blankets. Forthwith you are permitted to bring 1) a water bottle, 2) either an iPod or one magazine, and 3) a towel that is smaller than the state of Rhode Island.

To Gay Spiderman: Yes, my very own fabulous workout partner Kelly thinks that you can do no wrong and that your inner thigh muscles (which you display so readily) may in fact have the power to bring together warring nations, but you don’t impress me. I know, I know: You probably missed what I just said, tuned in as you seem to be to the din of your own apparent awesomeness. So I’ll say it again: You don’t impress me. It’s the gym, you little weirdo, so take off your little sunglasses and your teeny-tiny running shorts (which I’m pretty sure you must have sewn yourself because who sells hotpants for men?) and stop collecting straight, bored, trophy housewife minions. Also? Shaving your legs only emphasizes the cellulite on the backs of your thighs.

To my current Gym Boyfriend: Please don’t ever talk to me again. And especially don’t talk to me twice in one workout period like you did the last time. Besides its being against Gym Boyfriend Rules, it freaks me out. No, no, no, no, no. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not angry at you. You’re still my Gym Boyfriend and nothing (save Christian Bale walking into the gym) is going to change that. All I mean is that I’m just not ready to move our relationship to the next level, even if that level only includes eye contact and your asking me if I’m using the machine you want to use. So: Shhh. Don’t talk to me. That you have a soft voice and an accent that hints that you are not American-born doesn’t make it any better. So stop. Thanks.