Keeping with my juvenile theme, I am beginning to wonder two things: 1) How is it that I managed to find a husband who is such a good fit for me, and 2) When are we going to hell, because we are so going there.
Tonight I went to the gym for a little weight lifting and high intensity intervals, though you would never guess it from the size of my rear and my extra cushiony spare tire. In my defense, this is Illinois, and it gets cold here in the winter, so I really need the extra blubber. It’s a survival mechanism.
Anyway, I usually go with Jim to the gym. Just to go off topic for a moment, I love that Jim and gym are homonyms, and I play it up often. I call his gym bag his “you bag.” I say, “I need to go to the ‘you’ and exercise” and “I need a new pair of ‘you’ shoes.” God forbid he ask me where his gym bag is, because the answer is, “All your bags are Jim bags.” Being 35 is no excuse to stop being immature.
ANYWAY, I usually go with Jim to the gym. But tonight I had to go alone. And in my solitude, I realized that I enjoy working out with him for many reasons, not the least of which is because it is far easier to make fun of people with him than it is alone.
For example, when we are there together, we notice other couples. There is the couple where the man is a lot younger and better looking than the woman who we assume is his wife. Naturally, they are “Disproportionate Couple.” There’s the trainer who himself is quite portly, AKA, “Fun Fat Trainer.” There’s the racquetball guy who wears what appears to be professional racquetball attire, or, as we call him, “Professional Pants Guy.” His partner looks at me a lot (I had Jim check him out checking me out to make sure I wasn’t just seeing things. He said for sure he was checking me out. He likes a little meat on his ladies, it appears). Unfortunately, he has kind of a skeevy vibe, hence his nickname, “Serial Killer.”
There’s the guy who looks like the character of John Locke from “Lost.” We just call him “John Locke.”
Our favorite is the couple who come in matching outfits. They are outrageously good-looking, bodies to envy, dazzling looks, great hair even while sweating. Once, when he smiled, I swear his teeth twinkled. Like us, they freely give the evil eye to pretty much everyone who walks past. Unlike us, they don’t even make an attempt to hide it. They are the best looking people there, and they know it. So naturally, we call them, “A Couple of A-Holes.”
So there I was tonight, longing for my husband’s companionship. Why? Well, tonight I was graced with the trifecta: Shaved Legs Guy in front of me, Velour Pants Guy next to him, and next to me, Steam Engine Guy. I call him that because the weights he lifts are outrageously heavy, and when he exhales, he goes “ppfffffftttt” like a steam engine. His last rep usually has an unbelievably long “pppfffffffffffffffffffftttttttttttttt,” as if he’s just pulled into the station and stopped. It’s everything I have to not start singing the theme from “Thomas the Tank Engine.”
It makes me wonder — how exactly will this come around for me? Because we know that’s where this is headed. You cannot possibly snicker about this many strangers without karma, or fate, or kismet, or whatever you call it, biting you in the rear. The rather large rear, as it is these days. I wonder what these people call me. “Stretch Pants Girl” or “Big Boobs” or “Twisted Nipples” (they are always pointed in different directions, and the gym lights really highlight it) or “Ass Sweat Girl” (wiping off the mat can be embarrassing).
Whatever it is, I totally deserve it. And it won’t stop me from coming up with nick names, especially when “Stupid Bandana Girl” and “Talks on Her Cell Phone” are on bikes RIGHT NEXT to each other. Oh yes, my uppance shall come. I can’t wait.
UPDATE – No sooner had I posted this than did Jim walk through the door. He went to workout later than I did since we couldn’t go together tonight. He looked at me and said, “Well, A Couple of A-Holes were there. So was Do-Rag Guy. And Blue Jeans and Flip Flops Guy was on the stairclimber!”
We are so going to hell.