Ain’t That Some Fit

So, anyone who knows me can tell you that in order for me not to work out 6 days a week, every gym in a 40 mile radius must be on fire or they’re all playing “Last Christmas” simultaneously on loop.  And even then, I’ll do some Insanity at my house, because I fucking love pizza and sitting on my ass, like, the other 22 hours of the day.  So I go full out batshit crazy when I am at the gym.  I’m doing a hybrid program dubbed “DoggBuilding,” which focuses on alternating between massive weight, low rep and then the next exercise in that muscle group is doable weight, many reps, three sets.

Now, I am pretty jacked for a woman.  In some exercises I’m pulling/pushing more than my own bodyweight.  It is clear that I have hit the gym a few fucking times in the last three years if you look at my shoulders, which enter the room BEFORE I DO.  As a gym patron, I do not look at other gym patrons unless it is to see if they are using something that I want to use.  I do not give a shit about how much weight you’re throwing up because I only care about how much weight I am throwing up.  And depending on how much it is, I might actually BE throwing up.  The bottom line:  I do not give a shit about the other people at the gym as far as their form, their weight, their workout design, their short shorts, or their bodybuilding.com free for signing up t-shirts.  But, apparently, people seem to care about me at the gym.  People seem to feel the need to comment on shit I am doing because…because my lack of eye contact, lack of talking to them, and lack of general giving a shit isn’t evident in my not making eye contact and not talking to them.

So, my friends, I have compiled a list of things that people have said to me at the gym.  Things that are so dumb and/or insulting that I literally can’t even.  And I don’t even own a pair of Uggs.  Let that sink in.

 “Ma’am, you’re cheating!  You’re not doing [concentration curls] right!  You gotta go only to 90 degrees!”  – Some middle aged man I’ve never spoken to before

Bro, you do remember that time when I was doing the curls this way because they were a “stretch and squeeze” set that I learned how to do and talked over doing with a guy who professionally teaches people how to work out?  Because I do.  I liked that part when my trainer told me and taught me how to do things safely and for my goals.  The part I did not like:  when a random middle aged man decided that I obviously don’t know how to do MAN EXERCISES and wanted to bother me while I was minding my own business to tell me.

“Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am!  You look like Brad Pitt in Gladiator when he fights that big guy!” – Some other middle aged guy, who turned out to be pretty nice and just ultra friendly.  To everyone.

So, this one almost seemed like a backhanded compliment at first, since I’m a lady, but it turned out this guy was referring to the “fighter bounce” I was doing on my leg day between sets.  This guy actually turned out to be really nice and just ultra friendly.  He talks to everyone.  The other day he was walking around singing blues songs he was making up on the spot about the people he saw.  I actually like this guy.

“You know you can go lower, right?” – Some mid-20s looking guy in reference to my hack squat

Yes.  I am well aware that I could drop my ass all the way to the floor if I wanted to.  I have a bad knee that prevents me from doing some leg exercises down into the full ass on the floor range.  I’m fine with it, I’d rather not have my knee explode off and rocket across this gym.  But, you know, thanks for assuming that I don’t know that I could, in fact, just sit on the floor.

“Do you need this?  Oh, let me get it!” *dramatic picking up of bar attachment and twirling it before handing it to me with a giant smile* – Some mid-20s-ish guy on the cable rig

No.  Just.  Just, no.  I don’t bust into your Destiny run stealing your ammo drops and then twirling a sniper rifle before letting you pass by in an attempt to flirt, don’t come over here and think I’m impressed by a twirling bar.  I used to twirl baton.  GTFO.

“Do you need help?” – Some possibly early 30s man next to me while I was deadlifting

NO, I DO NOT NEED HELP.  Did you see it when I lifted up this heavy-ass bar filled with weights and then put it down again?  I don’t need any help lifting it, moving it, re-reacking it, or otherwise.  I’d like you to help yourself out of my personal space, thanks.

Now, I understand some of them were trying to flirt, but I’m not at the gym to pick up fly honeys.  I’m at the gym to lift and push heavy things until I question my own mental sanity and then make it harder by running or biking or stair climbing for half an hour.  I live by the Four “Ins” of the Gym:

1.  I make sure my ass is IN the gym right after work so I can get a sick pump going to fuel my 22 hours of laziness.
2. If I am in the gym, I am IN the zone, so don’t talk to me.
3. I get into the zone so I can hurry the fuck up and get my ass back IN the car, so that I am…
4. …not stuck IN traffic trying to get said ass back home in the metro area traffic.

If you are preventing me from completing the “Ins,” this bothers me, mostly because I’m neurotic about my workouts and I don’t like change!  But it also bothers me because I don’t need you to tell me how to do exercises I already know how to do, I don’t need you to offer me advice or help, or anything else unsolicited.  What I need you to do is lift your shit up and put it down and mind your own business.  If you don’t want to be interrupted while doing your hobbies, don’t interrupt mine.  Or I might shoulder press you straight through this roof, bro.

 

Always Wear Clean Undies

So, it is God-awful hot and humid in Maryland in the summer, oh, about 700% of the days between April and October.  This is why I pretty much live in dresses in the summer, especially ones I can wear to work.  So that’s what I did today, I wore a dress to work.

About lunch time, my teammate needed help taking out big Rubbermaid storage containers to her car, so I offered to help.  We walked through our building and out into the parking lot where, trust me on this, the wind was waaaaaay fucking gustier than it had been this morning.  I was walking ahead of my teammate carrying a Rubbermaid and as we are heading to her car, what happens?  Fucking Marilyn Monroe on the New York City vent happened.  Hurricane Hide Your Shame happened.  Industrial fans powered only by giant middle fingers happened.

My dress.  Flew up.  And exposed my ass.

Go ahead and read that again.  Take your time.

That’s right, my dress FLEW UP and I couldn’t stop it because I was carrying a storage container.  Flew right up and showed MY WORKPLACE MY UNDERWEAR.  Let that sink in for a second.  Nerds, copious amounts of nerds, had the opportunity to see my underwear.

Now, my teammate was walking behind me with her containers, so the likelihood that anyone else saw it is…no, it’s still pretty high.  And, holy F, did she laugh.  She laughed so hard that we had to stop walking for a minute.  Which I’m actually okay with because that shit is funny.  It was funny when we told the office five minutes later.  It was funny when it was brought up again a few hours later.  I’m sitting here writing and this it’s STILL funny now.  It’s still going to be pretty hilarious tomorrow, too.

The only form of mild retribution the Universe granted me is that while she was laughing as hard as she possibly could, a gust of wind caught the container lid that was resting inside her container, causing it to fly up and hit her in the face.  Her face wasn’t pink with black polka dots, though.

So, that was my day at work.  The wind sped by in a Formula F-U racecar and exposed my pink and black polka dot undies to my colleagues.

And that, my friends, is why you should ALWAYS wear clean undies.

The Backstreet Boys Never Sang About Nuclear Holocaust

I was cleaning my apartment today and I had Pandora set on my “Best of the 80s” channel because I am a thousand years old.  Actually, I’m 29, but I LOVE 80s music.  And I noticed a common theme in the songs I was listening to, namely that THE 80S COULD GET AWAY WITH SINGING ABOUT LITERALLY ANYTHING AND PEOPLE WOULD PEE THEMSELVES WITH EXCITEMENT OVER IT.

You don’t believe me?  Let’s examine some of my favorite 80s songs and you will notice a few major themes that stand out:  1.  being a creep, and 2.  nuclear apocalypse.  Let’s address theme number 1 first, because it is one that perhaps perplexes me the most.  I’m talking about “Every Breath You Take.”  Sting has said that people LOVE to use this song as their wedding song.  Sure, if you’re marrying the Craigslist Killer, maybe.  But let’s examine further.

This is a song written and performed by the greatest band that has ever lived, The Police, and released in 1983 on the greatest album ever made, Syncrhonicity.  Now, upon first listen, you might think that this is a sweet song about a man so hopelessly in love that he wants to witness every breath his paramour takes.  You’d be wrong.  This is song is about an obsessed stalker who clearly creeps around outside this woman’s house peeking in her windows and being completely and totally incapable of accepting in his head that she might not have feelings for him.  This is four minutes of some creepy-ass pick-your-old-McDonald’s-cup-out-of-the-trash-and-sniff-it stalkery shit.  This is the musical soundtrack to an episode of “Lifetime Investigates With Barbara Walters.”  This is not a romantic song.  This song is the video they show you at freshman college orientation about what to look out for walking home from the library after dark.  This song is also, ironically, written by a band called The Police.

Okay, so what’s one song, you might ask?  One song isn’t a big deal.  But let’s talk about Depeche Mode for a minute.  Let’s talk about the song “It’s No Good.”  This song is about another total probable Knight of Neckbeardia who is clearly in love with a woman who might not even know he exists.  It deals with him not worried about rushing and putting in a ton of time into making this woman his, as he feels it is their fate.  And any objections she might have to this?  “You can run, but you cannot hide.  Don’t say you want me, don’t say you need me, don’t say you love me, it’s understood.  Don’t say you’re happy out there without me, I know you can’t be, ’cause it’s no good.”  I’m listening to this song right now and it gives me the heebie jeebies that indicate that I should call the police.  The actual police, not Creep Sting and the Fake Police Uniform Abductors.

“So that’s two songs about stalkers, surely, these don’t musically define an entire decade!” you say!  And you’d be right!  Because it doesn’t!  But nuclear apocalypse does!  That’s right, kids, if there was one thing everyone loved in the 80s, it was the constant impending doom of potential earth melting nuclear holocaust!  And singing about it!

I feel like I don’t even have to explain these.  “Safety Dance?”  “Land of Confusion?”  “99 Luftballoons?”  ALL ABOUT NUCLEAR APOCALYPSE.  “Land of Confusion,” by Genesis, is one of the greatest songs of all time.  People regard it to this day as a masterpiece.  Because, hey, if you might one day be reading the paper on the john and 20 seconds later are a pile of ash and soot, you might as well at least acknowledge it.  And what better way to do this than to set it to some catchy music and buy the tape and sing terrible karaoke about it?  Because this was the 80s, and if there’s anything that helps you get your mind off of the Russians dangling nukes in front of Reagan like a middle school bully threatening to pour milk on some nerdy kid’s head in the cafeteria, it’s definitely off-key singing about the Russians dangling nukes in front of Reagan like a middle school bully threatening to pour milk on some nerdy kid’s head in the cafeteria.

These are just two of the themes in 80s music, which could, for all intents and purposes, basically get away with writing songs about literally anything.  And you know what?  I LOVE IT.  I LOVE ALL OF IT.  This is what the 80s music the greatest musical decade in…ever.  Because a band called The fucking Police made bajillions on a song about stalking.  Because Peter Gabriel didn’t even try to pretend “Sledgehammer” was about anything other than sex.  Because Phil Collins basically put out the same song 43 times and we ate them all up.  Because Billy Idol loved peroxide (and cocaine).

Because the Backstreet Boys never sang about nuclear apocalypse.