Despite a dedicated passion to being as lazy as humanly possible, the straining buttons on my favorite jeans finally inspired me to join a gym. All the exercise stuff is honestly not as bad as I’d imagined. Mainly because all cardio machines come equipped with a little private television set, allowing you to shed your rolls while still keeping up with those krazy Kardashians.
But! Do not let the adorable tiny televisions fool you! The gym is a veritable house of horrors. Awkward moments lie around every corner and NO ONE is safe. Perhaps you’ll accidentally hit the pause button on your treadmill, mid-run, and be flung into the handlebars. Or think a guy is checking up on you when, really, he’s gaping at his own rippling six-pack. Or you’ll spill your entire water bottle onto a pile of yoga mats. Or get the draw string to your gym shorts stuck on the handrail of the stairs as you’re trying to make an exit. Or perhaps you’ll have a personal trainer, one who barely speaks English. His idea of discussing your fitness goals will involve literally poking at your love handles and upper-boob/armpit fat, grimacing in disgust. A month later you’ll run into him and he’ll say “oh hey, you look . . .better.”
But all of these atrocities are no match for the harrowing den of bodies known as the locker room.
I’m no prude and don’t have big issues with nudity. Or at least I never thought I did. I mean, last night my roommate found me cooking in my skivvies and simply said: ‘I see no-pants season has arrived.” But I really think there’s a line between lounging on your couch in your boyshorts and prancing around the lavatory with your bush on display. I mean, I understand you need to change into your sports bra. Fine! By all means, casually face your locker, slip from one brassiere into the other, and go on your merry way. You need to towel off post-shower? Who doesn’t?! Quickly and efficiently pat down one half of your body while keeping the other under wraps. It is common courtesy. Please DO NOT blow-dry and straighten your hair while wearing only a hip-length golf shirt and the glory of God’s creation. And, yes, articles of clothing do contain physical mass. But I honestly don’t think a bra and panties is going to tip the scales. Please, please, PLEASE do not weigh yourself in the nude.
The cherry on top of this Hell sundae is sharing a gym with people you know. And I don’t mean your pals or your swim team or your mom. We’re talking co-workers, folks. I’m going to go on record right now and say I would be perfectly fine not ever knowing which people sitting across from me in the conference room go brazilian, which keep it natural, and who has the biggest areolae. Today I sauntered into the locker room, confident after a relatively embarassment-free workout, only to find the director of another department in my company standing naked as the day she was born, lotioning up her legs. There was bending involved. I now need to quit both my gym AND my job. Excellent.
And there you have it. Despite the alleged health and wellness benefits, the emotional strain of the gymnasium will probably kill us all. We’re better off staying home, watching televisions on couches in the privacy of our own homes. I mean, there’s still a big risk of seeing a stray set of boobs, but at least you know they’re probably just Khloe’s and, at this point, that’s hardly startling.