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.