I have a confession.
I have done something that I swore I would never do once I moved to Bozeman:
I joined a gym.
Yes.
A gym.
See, I am a fitness fanatic, but with a practical bent. I exercise all the time, simply because I need to be in good shape to enjoy my favorite activities: snowboarding, hiking, etc.
This is opposed to the fitness fanatics with the narcissistic bent. Oh, you know what I am talking about... chest shaving (to show off the definition), flexing in front of the mirror, pouring themselves into those ridiculous skintight Underarmour shirts, spending hundreds of dollars on powdered supplements...
When I moved to this glorious place from Wisconsin, I vowed that there would be no further need to work out at a gym. I would run. I would bike. I would hike. And, in foul weather, I would do Nordic Trak in front of my beloved plasma.
Well, it worked for over a year.
Then, late this spring, my Nordic Trak broke. My retard-strength snapped a weld that is impractical to repair. (I am kidding about the retard strength. I am a retard, but I don't have
retard-strength, in the parlance of our times.)
I made it this far simply running, doing some pushups and other exercises with some weights.
But, in a cruel twist of irony, the same reason that forced me to work out in a gym in Wisconsin drove me to join a gym here:
Weather.
As in hot, hot weather.
I
hate hot weather.
We have had a massive heat wave this summer, and a string of 90 degree days.
Normally heat in Montana is much more bearable than heat in Wisconsin because of the infernal humidity in the midwest.
Some people think running isn't very fun as it is.
Trust me when I say that running six miles in 93 degree heat
sucks donkey balls.
Hard.
Anyway, I joined this fancy mega-plex type athletic club.
Readers who live in Bozeman know which one I am talking about, but I am not going to name it here.
Why?
Because I am about to ridicule some people, and I would hate for said narcissists to google the name of said athletic club and perhaps read an
unflattering description of themselves.
You'd be surprised how much this website appears on Google searches for some very innocuous (and not-so-innocuous) searches.
Anyway, back to the mega-plex athletic club. Let's call it... The Bridge.
I admit, I have never belonged to a health club this nice. It is a sprawling complex, with the usual shitloads of free weights, machines and row upon row of cardio equipment. It also has a pool, hottubs, saunas, steam rooms, training rooms, yoga, pilates, spinning, a couple basketball courts, raquetball courts, squash courts, a massage-type spa, a coffee bar, sandwiches.
Shit, for all I know, there is a blowjob stand somewhere in there.
Anyway, my first time in there, I lift a little, then plug into an elliptical trainer for an hour of Baseball Tonight and sweat.
I pick the front row... where at least I can, through the magic of a pounding 155 bpm heart rate, headphones, and the soothing sounds of John Kruk, maintain the illusion that I am alone.*
Sweating heavily.
While John Kruk talks baseball to distract me from what is going on around me.
Wait... strike that.
In any case, I cannot stand the meat market aspect of this (and all) gyms.
You've got Mr. Midlife Crisis--- mid-50's, balding-with-ponytail, loafers-with-no-socks douchebag strolling on the treadmill in the back, boring holes with his eyes into all the female ass displayed before him. And yes, I saw him again today, pulling into the gym, driving, natch, an Audi TT convertible. I have aptly named him.
(I did not make that up. He was there. And wearing a low-back brace, which was somehow funny to me. Maybe he threw it out masturbating.)
Then, you had Mr. Subtle. Mr. Subtle, also on a back row treadmill, was a younger fellow, probably in his mid-20's. Mr. Subtle was wearing one of those clinging, skintight Underarmour shirts advertised by pro football players, who really should be the only humans allowed to don such clothing.
(Doesn't anyone realize how fucking stupid they look in those things?)
Mr. Subtle also had a pony tail, and, here's the kicker----
He was wearing shades.
Yes!
Just when I thought I had seen it all...
Some asshole, leisurely strolling along on a back row treadmill, indoors, in his skintight lycra shirt, pony tail and fucking shades.
Douchebaggery abounds.
I think I just hit the motherlode for new material.
*OK, OK. I have have a
great ass. And I am proud of it. That's really why I pick the front row machines.
Just kidding.
But I
do have a great ass.
I'm just not that proud of it.
Wait.
Do they make Underarmour shorts?
