Love, Jimmie

Want to know how my day started today?

Lady at the gym:  Are you working out with a trainer? 

Jimmie:  No.  But I’ve taken a lot of classes from Lynnette.  She taught me well.

Lady at the gym:  Well, you always work out really hard. Well done.

Jimmie: <preen>

Want to know how my day started yesterday? With jazz.  In abs class.  Who plays a jazz soundtrack for an ab workout?  Jazz makes no sense.  How are you supposed to breathe rhythmically to power through 600 bicycle kicks when you listen to jazz?  Everyone knows that you either play some sex music or some Adele in an abs class, because everyone knows you need to be motivated by some kind of sexy or raw emotion in order to not quit after ten crunches.  Ima have a word with the instructor, who by the way won’t be here for the next two classes because he’s going to a class reunion.  I’m pretty sure he’s going to walk around with no shirt on the whole time because I’m pretty sure a 50-something year old man with a stomach like a brick will win the prize for “Most Well Preserved”, and everyone knows that is the only reason you go to reunions anyway – to show off how good you still look and/or how much you have accomplished since you last saw each other at graduation.

And now, speaking of snooty snotholes, I have a story about a lady at the YMCA, where I used to go. Once upon a time, before Lynnette started teaching classes at the Y, I had never been to a Body Pump class.  I really wanted to go, though, so after much encouragement from Lynnette and assorted others I ventured to try it.  I went to the Greenway first and ran about five miles. I was pretty gross, but I didn’t worry too much about it as no one really expects you to be hawt at the gym, right?  I got to the class and set up all my equipment.  While the class was tough, I gave it my best.  One exercise required that we have partners and it seemed to me that everyone in there already knew each other so people already had established partners.  The instructor asked if anyone was solo, I raised my hand, and she asked another lady who was partnered with two other people to even it out and partner with me. 

The woman walked over towards me and we gave each other a look.  She had on some pretty tight spandex-y pants, a tiny little sports bra as a top, a giant well-manicured ponytail that had obviously been washed and styled just that morning, a full face of makeup including lip gloss and some giant hoop earrings.  Her stomach was as flat as a board, her butt perky, her boobs suspiciously firm-looking.  Etc.  What she saw when she looked at me I don’t know, but her eyes rolled from the top of my head down to the toe of my shoes.  She heaved a sigh and then called out to the instructor, “Nope, I’m good” and walked back over to the two people she had already partnered with. 

Needless to say, I never went back to that class until Lynnette started teaching it.  Sweet little old Lynnette who, while even being a hottie when she works out never makes anyone feel like crap about themselves because they sweat.

I was hopeful that my new gym wouldn’t have any snooty snotholes but unfortunately that is not the case.  There is a woman who I see nearly every day, in the gym and in the locker room (Ima call her Bianca which is totally a fake snooty name, in my opinion).  Bianca likes to kind of sashay around the gym, swishing her butt all around and then park on the elliptical machine for her allotted workout time.  She wears a sweat band (70s-style terry cloth) around her forehead and regularly makes unfortunate choices in workout pants.   When her workout is over, she sashays with her swishy butt into the locker room, gives me a once over as I am drying my hair and NEVER SAYS A WORD TO ME.  NEVER.  I know she speaks because I’ve heard her have conversations with others.  Yet there must be something about me she finds aesthetically unpleasing because she routinely ignores me as if I am not there.  I’m guessing that matching bra and panty sets offend her. 

There was a time when that would really bother me, when I could never let her beat me.  I’d do anything to make her talk to me, nay even like me a little even if only grudgingly.  But that was the old me.  The new me could give two rips.  Also, the new me will totally let her sashay around the gym with her swishy butt and never tell her that the unfortunate choice she regularly makes in workout pants really emphasizes the fact that her underwear is all wedged up in her butt crack and everyone can tell.  Suck on that, Bianca!

I’m so nice.

P.  S. Tony, I just want you to know that that other day when I was running on the Greenway, I saw four men IN UNIFORM running in front of me.  I’ll have you know, that phenomenon really did make me run further and faster!  Put that in your pipe and smoke it.  You’d better *bring it* next time I come out there.