After the last post I have to prove that I really am shallow and heartless and mostly concerned with my looks and how much beer I can put down in one sitting. Sheesh, I almost put poetry on there. My. Poetry. What could be worse? (Sorry Greggie. No offense. Yours was really very good. I'm sure you will be a shining star on the rap scene in no time. Especially with your good looks.)
I have a small problem at the gym. I go over and say "hey" to my trainer when he's around (and try to look cool because I know a trainer, and that's the shit at the gym). He usually bitches about being tired and whatnot (the guy leads a b.u.s.y. life. No shit, take yours and triple it. Only he doesn't have kids so it can't be that fuckin' busy, so I don't know what I'm talking about.) I bitch about the new program he just gave me (it is kicking my ass bigtime) and how my hand is still asleep. Yeah, I got this thing. My hand has been numb for seven years. Massive nerve damage by now, I guess. Can't really do art anymore. Mousing aggravates it. No biggie, you wouldn't know it to look at me. But I digress...
So the last few times he's been sitting there talking to this other, older guy who works out there. He actually is fit for a Grey Hair, but even if I had gone as long as Krypto has, I wouldn't be interested. Just not my type. And he's one of those. Ladies, you know what I mean. I call 'em Prowlers, but whatever. He's a looky-loo, a gawker. Not that I'm not flattered, but:
1. I am soooo taken. Good sex, even.
2. I got two kids, for crissake.
3. Can I just go and work out and (subtly) check out the local real estate without some old guy checkin' me out all the time? I mean, I've been going there for a year with no reciprocation. It ain't gonna happen.
Once he approached me and asked me about the car on my shirt, which I only bought because the print matched my shorts, I never actually read it, but it said "Bad Ass Derby," and he asked me where this "Bad Ass Derby" happened.
"Huh?" Stupid sounding but I was in the middle of a set.
"Oh." I looked down. "I got it at Old Navy." For crissake, you old fuck. Leave me the hell alone! I was making a pretense at playing nice so I kept that last bit to myself. Then, no doubt feeling guilty for my evil thoughts,I offered, "I'm more into four-wheel drives."
He didn't really know what to say about that, except his son who was with him (yeah, and he's at least upper 20s) asked me what I drove and I said it was that big-ass Rubicon out in the parking lot and he said, "Huh. Cool." He obviously hadn't seen Beastie before, from such a lackluster response.
Then I had to move on to some other weights, so that was the extent of our conversations; except for maybe a "You usin' that machine?" from time to time. I'm not there to make friends. I got friends. I'm at the gym to get that caved-in teenager stomach we all dream about.
So now he's always talking to my trainer (ok, by always I mean twice) and for some reason I just pretend he's not there. I don't know what else to do. He might be a nice guy. He's probably a grandfather (giggle - low blow for a Prowler). I don't want to talk to him. But I don't want to offend him either. And don't suggest I just say "hi." I suck at smalltalk. Short conversations don't work for me. I'm a novelist, for fuck's sake. I don't economize with words. I mean, just look at the size of this post. I wouldn't even begin to know how to shorten it; to be consise about the issue. That last line says it all: semi-colons are my best friend because then you get to say it twice in the same fucking sentence!
The other thing I noticed is this chick. There's one at every gym. Ok, maybe not, but there's one at our gym. The cute chick who screws everything that's not tied down (and maybe some what are.) She makes the rounds, that's for sure. She even did BSH for awhile, which is why he quit coming, but now he's apparently over it because he's back. Sometimes. (I need to study him - he's the character for the next book. If there is a next book because I have to finish this one first and it is the book from hell that will not end!!!!!!) Her latest is the short (by "short" I mean eye to eye with me and I am 5' 1/4") ex-marine trainer guy. She is hanging out with him and lookin' buff. Not, perhaps, in a good way.
Tell me guys, when a girl looks like she can kick your ass from here to next Tuesday, is that sexy? At least she has the boobers. I am leery of doing too much chest work because no matter what anyone says, doing lots of chest exercises does not make your tits bigger. It actually just makes them look like itty bitty titties hangin' off a a man-chest.
I'll leave you with that lovely image to sleep on.
PS: Special note to the showtunes couple, you know who you are. That dress is perfect for Vegas. Sorry we're going to miss it. We have a party and if it's not fun my friends are going to get so tired of me saying, "Fuck, I could have been in Vegas, but I stayed home for this."