My dad is a college professor. He is the epitome of the “Absent Minded Professor.” He’s got thick white hair that he never cuts too short, glasses that he loses all the time (and that usually end up in the mass of hair he’s sporting) and always has some kind of stain on his clothes. If it’s not coffee, it’s whatever he had for lunch. Not a single day goes by that my dad doesn’t spill something on himself. We call him a Slopbots. I’m not entirely sure why.
Anyway, I say this as an excuse for why I spilled coffee on my khaki pants this morning, while I was getting in the car. It’s the genes. I can’t help it.
Dear Gym Patrons:
I enjoy my gym. It’s never too busy, and the classes are really great. I never feel like I’m too fat for the gym (I’ve felt that before, and it sucks). But, if your whole reason for going to the gym is to get guys to look at you, please don’t go. I don’t need to see your stupid thighs that don’t touch, and your stupid midriff-bearing tank top while I’m gasping for breath on the treadmill. I don’t need to see your perfectly made-up face (Seriously? Who wears make up to the gym?), while mine is bright red and sweaty. If you’re just going to sit at the rowing machine, instead of actually using it, do you mind getting the eff out of the way so I can use it?
The sweaty, red-faced fatso that’s been glaring at you all night.
Seriously. I went to the gym last night around 8. There were two girls there, both wearing bike shorts, both wearing skin tight tank tops, just walking around the weight area. I saw them sitting on the ad crunch machine. I saw them fixing their hair in the full length mirrors that face the leg presses. I saw them giggling near the shoulder machines. But, I never saw them actually use anything. If the point of going was to get stared at, it worked. I’ll just never understand why someone would pay that much money a month to walk around a gym. Makes no sense to me.