Not everyone goes to the gym, and that’s fine. But for any of you that have gone with any regularity (you know, maybe for that one term back in freshman year of college or whatever), YOU HAVE MET THIS GUY. Maybe THIS GUY was a woman. This person is the Oversharing of the Current Gym Experience person. And tonight, I may have met the most epic incarnation to date. And I do say met, because this is the kind of guy who you CAN’T just observe. They won’t LET you. They need to MEET you so that you can commiserate – maybe even converse.
After getting my ass whooped (due in no part to the 10 lbs of candy I have consumed in the last two weeks, I am sure of it) in Sweaty Hell, I decided I’d earned an executive workout aka a trip to Sweaty Heaven aka the sauna. As soon as I stepped foot on the pool deck, it was impossible to ignore the fact that SOMEONE was having a very boisterous conversation, theoretically with a friend. After turning the corner, I see that Overshare City is currently located in the hot tub – or rather, right outside of it, sitting in the capper chair, showering his friend with knowledge. Or at the very least, words. English words. That much I could tell. The Mayor of Overshare City(hereinafter, The Mayor) was no ordinary gym rat. To be sure, I, too, lack the requisite gayness, fake tan, look of starvation or exercise addiction, or fake tits that has made said gym so… Pearlescent. But The Mayor had trumped everyone: mid- to late 20’s with stringy, moob-length hair dyed a most unnatural MANIC PANIC cranberry red (but fading, of course), he was as white as me but lacking any ounce of my signature body fat. Face- and bacne – because anything else would be unworthy of the Anarchist pendant he wore around his neck – and for swim attire he wore one pair of wet, ripped, and saggy “camo” underwear (hey Anthrax – I can still see you). To top it all off, he was sporting a spiked dog collar. Perhaps that was the key to his city? In any case, he wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
He was aggitated and jumpy. He couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position in the capper chair – enough so that, for at least a short moment, I thought he might ACTUALLY be handicapped. But no. Just antsy as all hell. He picked up a rumpled paper bag – is he gonna pull out a crack pipe? Maybe he’s on uppers? And of course, there’s me, sitting in the hot box, STARING. He eventually decided to leave his deck chair and head into the sauna, probably because being The Mayor gives him a special talent of sensing where he is least wanted and heading there quickly. He walks in the door and I swear to God, it went something like this:
“Oooooh God. Yeah. Woooo! Yeah. Man. C’mon body. You did 10. You did 15. Why can’t you do 25? You can do 25. 25 25 25. Yeah. C’mon. Yesssss. Mmmmmmm. God, it’s hot. Feels goood. Mmmm. Yeah. 25. BREATHE. Yes. Yes yes yes. C’mon. Oops, look, it’s still slippery. Ok. C’mon. You can do this. ONE! Oops, too tight. Ok. Yeah. We can do this. Readjust. Ok. Yeah. ONE. TWO. THREE. OH GOD, THIS SHOULDN’T HURT THIS BAD! FOUR. FIVE. SIX. Man, that’s hard, ok. I’m gonna move a little. Ok. Yeah. There we go. SEVEN. EIGHT. Ughhhhhh! YEAH! Ummmm… ooooh. God. It’s hot. Uh. Body. Yeah. Mmmmm….”
Listen. I’ll be honest with you. I fucking hate dudes who come into the hot box and try to go Yogi on everyone. I don’t give a CRAP if you’re into Bikram. I’M NOT. IF I WERE, I’D DO BIKRAM IN THE BIKRAM STUDIO, NOT IN THE SAUNA. Going on and telling me about how “centered” and “clear” you feel. How “aligned your chakras are.” How “strong and energized” Bikram has made you. Fuckin’ assholes… and it’s always dudes. What’s up with that??? Anyway. So when The Mayor comes in with his rumpled bag and water bottle, paces the 4’x5′ floor, then drops to the ground for some apparently-necessary military push-ups, he of course selects such a position that he’s blocking the door, prohibiting anyone from entering or fleeing. I, being the lady that I am, am tempted to kick him in the mouth. Maybe I could blame it on spatial panic… claustrophobia intensified by nonsensical (or I-don’t-care-ical) babel and completely unnecessary displays of human strength and endurance.
After finishing however many pushups he insisted to himself he needed, The Mayor sat down next to his items and continued to murmur softly, encouraging himself, and generally groaning with approval at the temperature and overall setting. One poor gym-goer walks into the sauna and offers the customary eye-contact-strained-grin-now-quick-look-down greeting. Meeting the eyes of The Mayor, he feels pressured to verbalize the greeting and says “How’s it goin’?” to which The Mayor replies “Oh, well, pretty good, you know, all things considered. I really can’t complain. Things are not bad. Not bad. How ’bout you? Oh, and thanks for asking, by the way.” New Guy says “fine,” and, not being totally stupid, knows that he’s entered a nightmare and immediately walks out. TAKE ME WITH YOU, NEW GUY! IF I LEAVE NOW, IT’LL BE SO OBVIOUS! I give myself 5 more minutes or “sweat in the eye”, whichever should grace me first, as my exit strategy. Thankfully, I can feel the beads of sweat growing heavier on my forehead, but right before gravity can take the wheel of destiny, The Mayor needs to unleash a new diatribe:
[cracking neck to the left] “OH GOD, YES!” [cracking neck to the right] “Mmmmm, now THAT feels good, body, I’m sorry you’re having to deal with so much right now. Oh god. WHY!?! Why does it hurt so bad??? The body should hurt, but why does this have to hurt THIS bad?? Uhhhh ohhhhhh whoooaaaahhh!” [dumps out paper bag, revealing a ton of gauze bandages and some 3M packing tape] “oh, body, ohhhhhh….”
THANK GOD, I finally got some sweat in my eye and it stung so bad I thought I’d been peed on. Not that I’ve ever been peed on. I haven’t. But I bet it stings! Anyway, the end of the story is that I left. If you don’t believe me, he’s probably still there. And he looks a little bit like this: