Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Garlic Man, gym, humor, southern, The Sprinkler, workouts
Everyone knows that going to the gym will make you happier, healthier and less stressed. Everyone also knows that when you go to the gym there’s a certain amount of grossness you have to put up with. And because gyms are so full of random body fluids, they’re a great way to build up your immune system. I know that when I go, I most likely haven’t showered yet, and I was probably melting in a soccer-mom chair the day before watching Daughter #1 elbow, trip and push other girls for 90 minutes, or I was at a barn with Daughter #2 getting horse sweat all over me. So God only knows what comes off of me as I hit high gear on the elliptical (a.k.a. the “I-limp-and-drool machine”). But nothing at the gym can compete with Garlic Man and The Sprinkler.
Garlic Man is there everyday for at least an hour. He wears Middle-Age-Man’s uniform: too-long shorts with the wife-beater-that-looks-professional-so-it-must-be-workout attire-shirt. The wife-beater shows off arms that look like duck pin balls have been stuffed under his skin. Out of the too-long shorts poke hairy little toothpicks. His legs have been ignore, I assume, because the gym mirrors only go to knee-height. With skinny chicken-legs and a massive upper body, Garlic Man resembles Sponge Bob, minus the tie and the irritating laugh that goes straight through your spinal cord.
But the worst aspect of Garlic Man, as you can guess, is that he REEKS. No matter when I go, he is there, and he always manages to get on the I-limp-and-drool next to me. Ten minutes later, I am annoyed. The acrid smell of recycled garlic wafts across the eighteen inches of space separating us. After twenty minutes, Garlic Man has a miasma of funk surrounding him. My eyes water, my nose involuntarily wrinkles up, and I do a double check just to make sure it’s not me. Eventually, I am forced to hold my breath and retreat, leaving numerous casualties behind flailing at the arm-thingies on their I-limp-and-drools as they gasp for air.
Second only to Garlic Man is The Sprinkler. He looks innocuous enough: a mid-fifties, Flashdance-headband-wearing guy who probably works a lot from home. I give him that polite elevator smile as he climbs onto the machine beside me, then tune him out. At first I try to convince myself it’s someone using the disinfectant spray (and by the way, no one in the world is going to convince me that leaving ionized water on sweat-soaked hand thingies for 10 seconds is going to disinfect them!), but a quick glance shows no one is wiping anything down.
That can only mean one thing: The Sprinkler is beside me.
I look over and see sweat droplets pop off of his body, landing on my arms, the floor, his equipment, and the people in surrounding counties. If we could make all The Sprinklers from all the local gyms exercise in Lake Chesdin each summer, there would no longer be pontoon boats mired in the droughty mud–just a new brackish ecosystem.
Gagging, I leap from the I-limp-and-drool, hastily spray the useless disinfectant all over myself and the machine and huff over to the mats. I add my nastiness to several other layers of sweat and fluid that only a 10th of the population ever bothers to wipe off. The same for the arm and leg machines. After the last set of reps (that’s gym-speak for doing a few, getting tired and pretending you meant to stop for a minute “to rest your muscles”), I grab my keys and stalk out the door.
The endorphins have kicked in, and I am definitely happier, less stressed, and ready to face the world. Yep, nothing is healthier than going to the gym.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: menopause, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, walmart
So the other day I went into Walmart, a store that I loathe and desperately need at the same time. And while I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid times when I know the Creepers are going to be there, I recently encountered a new species of person to avoid: the Menopausal Woman.
Now, to be fair, I am on the cusp of becoming one of these creatures. In fact, most of the women I work with are in various stages of morphing: there is a constant battle going on over the temperature and caffein intake in our office, as well as constant discussion about why the “muffin top” won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups we do. There is also very little sleeping going on. Many of my co-workers FaceBook each other at 3:00am because they are awake for no apparent reason.
So imagine my surprise, when I have paused during my stroll (okay, pushing cart quickly, jaw jutting, not looking right or left so as to avoid getting sucked into buying shoes that I know will blister my feet, but OMG they’re only $5!), down the aisles at the pajama section, and I suddenly realize my cart is gone. Not only is it gone, but my purse, cell phone and 20 cans of dog food went with it.
I know, I know, we’ve all been told not to leave our carts unattended, and to keep our purses on our bodies. But this is Southern Suburbia, the insulated tin of Cream Cheese America! I felt naked (no purse or cell phone) and stupid, turning in circles, stalking around the pajama racks as if I am looking for something to buy and not frantically wondering how long I’ve been wandering around without my cart and where the Hell did I put it, anyway?
Finally realizing someone has walked off with my things, I faced a dilemma: Do I
a) find an employee and tell them I lost my cart somewhere between the shoes (yes, I stopped) and the pajama section, and face their looks of pity,
b) borrow someone’s phone to call my husband to come get me and admit I’m too stupid to shop at Walmart, or
c) cruise around the store looking for the perpetrator, wasting valuable time when the professionals could be catching him/her?
Of course, I picked C.
Four aisles over, I spot her: Menopausal Woman, quilted purse slung over her shoulder, staring at her list with a pencil in her teeth. I cautiously approached, experience having told me never to startle such a creature, and said, “Excuse me, M’am, but I think you have my cart.”
Menopausal Woman looked with confusion at the piles of dog food, cat food and $50 worth of toiletries (more on that later), and turned about eight shades of red.
“Oh my Gawd, what is wrong with me?” she exclaimed.
We laughed it off and I took my cart back, chuckling to myself and feeling superior. About three minutes later, I see Menopausal Woman sidling up to me again.
“Excuse me, M’am,” she said, her face a bright fuchsia. “Where exactly did I steal your cart? I still can’t find mine!”
I answered her, knowing that someday I will be Menopausal Woman. The signs are all there: I walk into rooms and have no idea why; my rear end is no longer the coldest thing in our bedroom; I have been known to stand in the grocery store parking lot and have no idea where I parked. So, I took this as a sign: be nice, for you shall reap what you sow.
Now, off to Starbucks for my $3 hit of caffein. I didn’t sleep well last night.
Subourbon Mom 