mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dainty, I Am Not. When I work out, I sweat. Actually, I do more then sweat, I spout out water like a NYC fire hydrant on a hot August day. Know what? I'm not ashamed of it. I mean really, what is the point of getting up at the butt crack of dawn if I'm not even bothering to put in a good effort? There is none. My routine is just that, routine. I arrive at the gym and claim my favorite treadmill. It looks out over the canal that runs through Fremont and provides an excellent vantage point for gazing at sailboats, kayakers, and the UW crew teams as they pass by. I place a small towel on the front of the machine, which works both as a sweat mop and as a barrier between me and the ticking clock. My car keys are situated in one of the two cup holders and my water bottle fills the other. I stretch for a minute or two and then I get right down to running. By minute seven my forehead is glistening and by the fifteen minute mark my hair is drenched. By the end of fifty minutes, everything on my person is damp. I have to say, the people who are at the gym before 6:00 AM are a pretty dedicated group overall. I see the same people day after day, week after week and they all have their routines. I call one lady Elliptical Elsie because she spends a good hour and a half on that machine every morning. Then there's Stairmaster Steve who actually makes more noise exhaling as he climbs then I previously though humanly possible. There's the Thick Neck Crew, a group of four men who spend all their time in the weight room grunting and spotting one another. If the other gym-goers have a name for me, I imagine it's Perspiring Patsy or maybe, more simply, Stinky. This morning I arrived at my normal time and began my regime. "My" treadmill was free and I went though my little set up process. Towel - check. Water - check. Keys - check. Stretch muscles - check. Begin running. Sweat. Sweat some more. Remove towel and wipe forehead. Put towel back over clock. Run more, sip some water. Sweat more. Grab the towel. Wipe. And so on. You get the picture. Not very exciting. Behind the treadmills, there is a line of reclining bikes and pedaling his little heart out is a guy I call Recumbent Roy. He has hair like Michael Bolton, not that that pertains to this story in any way but I thought I'd mention it. RR always selects a bike directly behind me and I'm not sure why. I don't think he's checking out my ass and I sure as hell don't look cute at that hour. I mean honestly, I barely brush my teeth before I leave my house never mind styling my hair or wiping the goop out of my eyes. But there are plenty of other bikes that Roy can use. He doesn't need to be right behind me. Maybe it's the proximity to the TV that makes him select that spot or perhaps he has "his" bike he like I have "my" treadmill? Well, whatever the case, I think he'll be making a change after today. You see, I was doing my normal running thing, sweating up a storm but this morning I was somewhat more tired then normal. Mondays are hard. My run felt as if it was happening underwater and I was laboring to stay focused and complete it. I reached for my towel and swiped my forehead for not the first time but instead of replacing the towel on the front of the machine, I accidentally tossed it over my shoulder and it landed right on Roy. Okay, there's really nothing grosser than having a sweat filled towel tossed on you at 5:45 AM, is there? Roy was fairly good natured about it. He only yelped a little bit as the towel hit him, although he threw that sucker off his person quicker then the naked eye could register. I apologized for my clumsiness and he accepted graciously but I couldn't help but notice he headed for the showers pretty soon thereafter, cutting his workout short. I can't say as I blame him. But I think there is a lesson to be learned in all of this too. If the gym is half empty, and the machines are plentiful, there is no need to be up my ass. I am Sweaty Sally, hear me roar. 4:10 p.m. - 2004-05-24 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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