The Gym.

I have made no qualms about the fact that I am what I like to call voluptuous. I know it. You know it. My sidekick, Bella, knows it. The pizza guy that delivers the pizza sometimes knows it. And for the most part I'm ok with it. With being in a constant voluptuous state there are certain challenges that a girl faces and today I'm going to go over some of the challenges that present themselves at the gym.

Look, I'm not going to lie - I hate the gym. Maybe in a previous life I was a hamster and that's the reason why I have treadmill/elliptical agent orange flashbacks. NO!!!!!! NOT THE TREADMILL!!! But to me, it seems ridiculous to get on to a machine and walk for 20 minutes to nowhere. Actually, I take that back. You do walk somewhere - to sweaty man in front/side/behind you land where everyone jaunts at a much quicker pace and fling flongs their sweat droplets EVERYWHERE.

I'm serious guys. 

There is no amount of disinfectant that can get the flinging sweat droplets which means that EVERYTHING at the gym is covered in someone else's DNA. BARF. I try not to think of that while I'm there, but go ahead - the next time you frequent a gym - try not to. See how that goes.

Enjoy your nightmares.

Do you have this suit in slimming black?

The other thing that really drives me B-A-N-A-N-A-S (go bananas! B A N A N A S) is when I am working out and there is a Grunter. Capital G. Capital Runt. Capital Er. You can tell this person by their affinity to vocalize every move that they make.

Going to stretch before using the treadmill? GRRRRRRRUUUUUNNNNTTTTTTTT
fart (it always happens)

Lifting a weight that an infant could carry?
OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH

Doing an ab work out?
HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO

Doing lunges?
SHESH SHESH SHESH SHESH SHESH
  

I pity the partners of these people, because if this is what their gym activities sound like, I don't even want to imagine what they sound like in the sack where actual work takes place. I imagine a lot of gorilla-esque sounds. You hear that? I could have sworn we just transported to the amazon. Sexy.

The other thing that drives me a little crazy are the GOOD FOR YOU people. There is always one that comes up while I am plotting the deaths of the sweat fling flongers and grunters that says, "Good for you!" At first, I thought, "Oh isn't that sweet! Grandma is cheering me on!!! I can rule the world!!", but then I thought about it a little more. Grandma and the like weren't going up to everyone at the gym. Just me. Like good for me that I got my lazy, voluptuous self away from the oreos and McDonald's drive thru long enough to take an interest in my own health.

This is an old lady who has not wronged me in anyway. Her picture was just on the internet. I looked for pictures of over-done cartoon grandmas pointing and wearing jogging suits, but can you imagine? The internet was all out. :(

This GOOD FOR YOUs reminds me a lot of those Christian zealots. Like - PRAISE JE-SUS. And GLORY BE TO HIIIIIM. HALLEJUAH! They mean well, but they come off as holier than thou nut jobs that are one symposium away from joining a cult. Seriously. It takes all that I have not to GOOD FOR YOU back to them about wearing bold colored sweat pants or for making the choice to dye their hair fire engine red or dousing themselves in enough perfume to gag an ox. Sweet baby Je-sus and bless their heart.

The last group that I'm going to talk about are the How You Doin's. I am in the middle of my workout. Grumpy cat face firmly planted on my mug. Definitely giving off, "go eff yourself" vibes. And up walks Mr. How You Doin'. Completely age inappropriate - like lead paint was still a thing and he had to walk up hill both ways to the one room school house when he was in his prime.He is the age of my father and grandfather - COMBINED. And he starts telling me how beautiful and wonderful I am. Now normally if an age appropriate man walks up, I'll be polite and at least make small talk. It ain't easy out there for a pimp (p-i-m-p such a good song!). And who knows - he could be the man of my dreams, but not to Mr. How You Doin'. They suck and are creepy as hell. If I wanted a sugar daddy, I would wear a shit ton more make up and, instead of wearing my old college
tshirt and yoga pants, I would look like Workout Barbie. I ain't no gold digger. What what.



And this is why I hate going to the gym.






Yeah, that's it. It's not at all because of the hard work and/or the lifting of heavy objects multiple times or the fact that I am clumsy and am always tripping on mats or that my feet fall asleep on the treadmill/elliptical. Or that I'm covered in sweat or my itunes library hasn't been updated since the Clinton administration. Or there is a Real Housewives of Somewhere marathon on or it's raining outside or my workout shoes make my ankles look fat. Or I left my water bottle in the car and now it has a weird smell and is growing fine baby hair. Nope. Not at all.

Forever Yours,

The Unemployed Diva

P.S. Originally this post was going to be more about a chubby person's experience at the gym, but then morphed. Frankly, the sweat flingers/grunters/old creepy men happen to everyone. Perhaps next time I will blog about about chubby people at the gym. Who knows.