Tuesday, May 12, 2009
zen and the art of physical fitness
So, this is one of those things that was too long to Tweet but would probably make for a crap blog post. I suppose I could have just kept it to myself, but...well...we both know that I don't always do that so well...

When you live in a relatively large, middle class, suburban town with a healthy elderly population, you tend to see some fairly awful attire at the town's community fitness center. Trust that I've seen my fair share of chandelier earrings, bedazzled tracksuits, curious piercings, and men walking the treadmill in Wrangler jeans, so it really does takes something truly special to faze me.

However, last week I saw:

A rail-thin, teenage boy running the treadmill while wearing Dockers, the waist of which he had hiked up to his armpits and the cuffs of which he had tucked into a pair of white tube socks he had pulled up to his knees. His glasses were unironically large, his Simples were outdated and lacking in both arch support and traction, and his polo shirt was tucked tightly into his pants. (In other words, he was a Caucasian Steve Urkel, but in 2009 and in real life.)


A woman doing what appeared to be a combination of high-impact aerobics, Tai-Chi, and interpretive dance on the stair climber machine for, like, an hour. With weights.

And call me catty, but I like collecting sights like these. Seeing people like Tube Sock Kid and Aerobic Tai-Chi Lady usually serve to help me feel better about my own ability to blend into a crowd, which is usually how I prefer to rock it at the gym – unnoticed, unremarkable, and utterly usual. So, while separately these sights would have each been impressive, together they were downright distracting, which was probably the reason I had failed to notice that my right shoe had come untied while I was running.

That is, until I tripped. And nearly fell. And made a bit of a scene. And, while kneeling to tie my shoe, noticed that I had quite the collection of cracker crumbs all over my bosom and in the corners of my mouth from my apparently very messy pre-gym snack. It was loud, embarrassing, and even weird Tai-Chi lady turned to stare at the clumsy, slovenly cow who was making all the ruckus on the treadmill (i.e, ME).

And that, my friends, is what you call KARMA.

(However, at least I wasn't wearing Wrangler jeans at the gym right? Because everyone knows that THAT GUY's the worst! Right?!


Good night.)



Blogger MB said...

Thanks for not keeping this to yourself. :)

When I run on the indoor track at school, there are always at least two middle-aged men, wearing jeans and power-walking. I just can't even imagine the discomfort. Blech.

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