Sunday, January 23, 2005

USDA Grade A

Among my favorite gym mates is Steak Lady.

Let me clarify right here and explain to you all that by favorite I mean most amusing. Not Best Friends Forever.

When I joined, I knew of the gym’s philosophy and its popularity; I was familiar with Pat’s reputation as the hottest, most effective and innovative workout engineer in the area. I knew the area the gym was located in and I fully expected the rich bitch members. But it wasn’t until my first kickboxing class, the first time I saw Steak Lady, that I realized that excursions to the gym could never be ordinary. Not at Pat’s House of Cardio Techno Sexy Sexy Workouts.

In my first class at the gym, I was on the punching bag behind Steak Lady. I watched her to figure out the rhythm of class, to learn that I should keep my jumping jacks in synch with everyone else’s, the way to turn my hips on punches and, generally, how not to embarrass myself.

That initial kickboxing class involved sucking a lot of air and feeling incredibly uncoordinated. I kept my limbs moving and my eyes on Steak Lady, but as a means of survival, I let my mind wander. It was a choice between indulging in a little bit of daydreaming to mitigate the burn or collapsing onto the floor and feigning a sprained ankle.

I tried to figure Steak Lady out. She had a killer tan. Built, not bulky. No visible fat. She boxed hard and well. Her breasts were huge - probably fake. Her workout pants looked vacuum sealed on and she had stripped down to a sports bra 30 seconds into class. First, I decided that she had the body I wanted. Second, I decided that she was around my age.

At the end of class, Steak Lady whips herself around – and I swear, it was in hair-tossing slow motion just like in any reputable beer commercial – and it becomes very clear that those enormous breasts were implants. And that she’s left the facelift for last.

Steak Lady was about my age. ...the year I was born.

I overheard another gym patron fawning over Steak Lady’s body in the locker room a few weeks later.

Steak Lady pretended (poorly, I might add) to be shocked by the attention.

I pretended (excellently, I might add) to be very interested in untying my shoes.

I felt that it was my duty to women everywhere to eavesdrop. When a 40some looks, from the neck down, like a 20some, her secret is begging to be turned into a New York Times Bestseller of a fad diet. I could be her ghostwriter! I silently wished that I had a notepad to inconspicuously take notes on.

Then, after milking out a few more compliments, that dumb bitch said that she’d been on the Atkins Diet for over 10 years.

The Atkins Diet!

I was so disappointed. The protein diet marketplace is incredibly over saturated. Which meant that there would be no book. Which meant that I couldn’t be her ghostwriter. Which meant that I would have to get a real job. Bloody hell.

Steak Lady told her admirer that she ate meat and eggs exclusively but for the rare slice of cheese or floret of broccoli.

I wanted to smother her in Wonder Bread.

Oh, hell, I still want to smother her in Wonder Bread.

I’m pretty that Steak Lady’s name is Tiffany. Or Tiffani. Or Tiffanie. Possibly Tyffany. It doesn’t matter because she doesn’t talk to me.

The reason that she doesn’t talk to me is probably because I look like I’m 11 and don’t have highlights in my hair. It might be due to the absence of Bebe Sport workout gear in my wardrobe.

But I’m willing to bet it’s the offensive odor of cinnamon-raisin bagels and oatbran muffins emanating from my person.

3 comments:

Robert_M said...

I think laughing at others at the gym is one way we get through it. I wonder who is laughing at me (a better question might be who isn't) There's a guy at my gym I like to call Johnny Cash cause he wears all black. Everything he wears is black socks shoes shirt shorts, and (sadly I know this) underwear.

What color is his towel you ask? Why chocolate brown of course.

This is funny to me...dunno why.

A said...

Hahahaha! Johnny Cash! Sweet.

You're absolutely right. Making fun of the others at the gym is in the name of survival and enjoyment. The reason I've stayed at my gym, I think, is because so many women there BEG for me to laugh at them. And I cannot resist the temptation.

Plantation said...

I'm trying like hell to understand you. We've talked about this before. I cringe when you hate yourself. 70%? I know and have read your lists, but it's all little shit. Jinkies (Velma term from Scooby-doo), you have soooo much going for you. I can't wait until you realize this. You should look at that Filet-dy (that's fill-lady if you're keeping score at home) and tell yourself she's nuthin and you could kick her ass cuz your quicker, faster, and smarter.

Your skating movie comment is priceless.

 
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