To be completely honest, I really hate gyms. I also hate most forms of exercise; it’s just such a lot of exertion. There is another reason why I can’t stand those human hamster wheel hangars, and it is probably the most compelling reason I have avoided them like the plague they are.
I am not one of those lithe giraffe-women, who wear the perfectly coordinated yoga pants and tank top, with a flawless face full of makeup, who manage to get their hair bound up into one of those sexy, perfectly tousled ponytails that bounce like a horse’s mane as they run on the treadmill or climb the stairmaster for two hours and never drop a bead of sweat.
No, I am the girl on the last treadmill in the row, drenched in sweat that is pouring into my eyes, matting my damp hair to my ruddy, puffing cheeks in whatever sweats and non-clingy T-shirt I could find that still fit. While Workout Barbie keeps her complexion peaches and cream (or whatever shade of foundation she slathered on with a spackle trowel prior to heading out the door) and smelling just as pleasant, I reek like the stench of a thousand baboon armpits after the first few minutes.
During my very first ever yoga class, my concentration was interrupted by what I thought to be a broken water main above my mat. Upon further inspection I discovered the torrent of water dripping onto the mat was actually being evicted by my sweat glands, something I didn’t know was possible in such substantial quantities from human skin.
At one point, the instructor, a breathtakingly gorgeous man, made the rounds to give everyone a little massage and I cringed at the thought of him laying his magnificent hands on my clammy neck and worse, keeling over from the smell of eau de eew assaulting his senses when he got near.
But, it was clearly time to do something active, so I called one of the national franchises to find out if they had kickboxing classes. I got through to a very eager gentleman named Chris. All I really wanted to know was did they have the classes. But Chris was insistent that I come to the gym and he would show me around. I reluctantly agreed and we set up the appointment.
I arrived at my scheduled time and had to wait at the front desk for my knight in shining spandex. Glancing around at the trainers, I pegged him immediately for the tall, sculpted He-man schmoozing a huge, buff guy at the free weights. I braced myself and waited patiently for him to pat the guy on the back and come striding over to me.
His smile was ear to ear in that slimy, I’m-about-to-catch-myself-a-sucker kind of way.
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