I went to my gym yesterday for the first time in a while. Or at least I assumed it’d been a while because when I went to grab my running shoes, they screamed, “Stranger danger!” and dove under the bed until I left the room. Insensitive jerks.
The gym I go to isn’t what one would consider a “nice” gym or a “fancy” gym or even a “gym where people don’t expose their genitals on the leg press machine,” but it’s usually good enough for my semi-annual visits. (I don’t want to get too sculpted.) However, yesterday all of my new-found exercise enthusiasm quickly dimmed when I found myself right behind the infamous “Sweat Lady.” Everybody hates “Sweat Lady.”
I don’t know who this woman is or anything about her besides the fact that she always wears black and always seems to get on the exercise bike right in front of me. She quietly sits down, puts in her earphones and then, once she’s covered the floor around her bike in towels, she starts to pedal. And pedal. And pedal. Five minutes later, sweat’s gushing off her body like she’s a motherf*#king race horse who just crossed the finish line at Belmont. Secretariat in a Champion sports bra.
Lest you think I’m using a bit of hyperbole here, I’m not. Ask anyone who’s ever been witness to her insane work outs—there are literally pools, rivers and streams of sweat underneath the bike (hence the towels) and Rico, the poor gym maintenance guy, has to mop up the area when she’s finally done with her two hours of exercising. Once he even had to take the bike apart and wipe off the inside because her sweat started to make the computer malfunction.
I’m pretty sure Rico’s about ten seconds away from doing serious bodily harm to Sweat Lady with a tube of clinical strength antiperspirant and a dirty squeegee, but that’s just speculation.
Anyway, when I went to the gym this morning and saw her glistening body on the bike, I decided to just steer clear and ask my husband to work out with me instead. Which was a good idea until he started acting like my trainer. And having your husband as your trainer is about as much fun as having your mother-in-law as your life coach. To wit:
Wendi, you’re not doing your squats right.
Yes, I am.
No, you’re not. You need to get lower. You’re not using the proper form.
How am I supposed to know the proper form?
Because I emailed the workout plan to you last night.
Yep. And you said, “Like I’m going to read this bullshit” and deleted it. Then you shoved four Thin Mints into your mouth and started scratching your feet with a Lego. Sigh. I fell in love with you all over again.
OK, how’s (pant) this squat? Good?
No, you’re not low enough.
Yes, I am!
No, you’re not!
WELL, MAYBE I CAN’T SQUAT PROPERLY, BUT AT LEAST I DON’T LOAD THE DISHWASHER LIKE A HALF-WITTED CHIMP NOR DO I LEAVE A TRAIL OF DIRTY SOCKS ALL OVER THE HOUSE LIKE I’M F*CKING “HANSEL AND GRETEL” TRYING TO ESCAPE FROM THE LAUNDRY ROOM! (pant) Could you please get me some water, sweetie? I’m a little parched.
Tomorrow when I go to the gym, I think I’m going to skip the treadmill and the personal training and just go hang out with Rico in the maintenance room for a few hours instead. Something tells me we probably have a lot to talk about.