when i learn that winning is sometimes losing after all

As some of you may recall, me and my gym's stair climber machine have a bit of a history. A long, bitter, embarrassing, and mildly painful history.

But while lesser women would have long ago accepted defeat, I, simply put, am not lesser women. And this would be why I - spurred on by a stubborn streak far more acute than the memory of past failures - decided to give things another go today. For you see, today would be different. My bum required it.

So, I tried. And ten seconds later - pedals cemented to the floor, glistening with sweat, and reeking of failure - I very nearly threw in the towel, 'though this time for good.

But as it turned out, today was different. This time my struggles - embarrassingly visible to most everyone in the gym - were acknowledged by a good Samaritan. My angel of mercy was roughly sixty, stocky, and wearing the sort of sweatbands around his forehead and writs that only a man of his age and physique can somehow pull off without so much as a trace of irony. Taking pity on me, he left his arm lifting machine (Yes, I am using all official equipment names. Thanks for noticing), crossed over to me and offered his assistance. Initially, he left rebuffed by my wounded pride, but after realizing just how painfully clear it was to him, me and everyone else in the immediate vicinity that I was lying, that I actually had no idea how to work this effing machine, my pride finally wore out and allowed me to give in. I turned to him, gave a nod and my most winning smile, and admitted that I couldn't do it on my own, that I was damsel in need of rescue.

A few minutes later we were up and running. The resistance was right, my legs were climbing and the sweet taste of victory tasted so very, very...sweet. I was positively thrilled, for I had conquered my arch nemesis - the stair climber machine - proving once and for all that no mere machine can make me its little bitch! Hells yeah, baby!!

Sensing my joy, my ally beamed a smile back. But my victory swell ebbed almost as soon as it flowed when he, eyes suddenly letchy and voice turning pervy, said, "You know, this machine is great for your behind!" glancing down at the object in question and sealing his sentiments with a wink for good measure.

And as if that wasn't enough to prove his point, he then wound up his towel and smacked me with it.

Smacked me Square. In. The. Bum.

In sum, What I Learned Today:
As it turns out, I lack a ready response for random pervy old men who've just smacked me in the bottom with their towels, other than to go all wide-eyed, let my mouth fall agape, and spend the remainder of my gym tenure feeling hyper-aware of my bottom. (Which, for the record, is now totally owie after only ten minutes on the blasted contraption. Damn you, stair climber machine! How was I to know this wasn't a war worth winning!?)