Like so many other Americans, I take Christmas time to mean free reign to stuff my face with sugary treats. (And savory ones too.) Just like the gratification of scratching a wicked mosquito bite, it feels so good, and even knowing the pain and regret that will ensue afterwards is little deterrent to stop it. What can I say, my spirit is weak. (And chocolate truffles are delicious.)
But it’s January now, and unfortunately not cold or dreary enough to have any hibernation or sunlight depravation excuses, and thus the food baby weight’s gotta go. I have a confession: I basically pre-planned for this predicament. In December, I’d buttered up local a gym to ask for a trial membership, and over the past week, I’ve been going there. There, is a trendy Hollywood, $200 a month, super gym where even an attractive, petite chick is hard pressed not to feel fat and ugly.
I’ll start by telling you about the Earth Bar, where all the pretty people like to hang out, drink beet juice, and flirt with eachother after their workouts. Then there are the yoga classes, which are packed to the gills, have an off-puttingly high ratio of men in attendance (sorry but I hate men in crowded yoga classes – they smell like feet, they’re gangly, and they make me feel like they’re going to kick me in the face every time they move), and where the mirrors are used as much for checking oneself out as for checking pose alignment. Believe me when I say it’s hard not to get distracted in class when a woman whose face and body is comprised of at least 60% artificial parts is basically making out with herself in the mirror. On the cardio and weights floor, there’s yet another breed of human being, which I can only image is grown from a diet of steamed chicken breasts, egg whites, and protein shakes. Oh, and steriods, of course. These guys are insane to watch – and like a accident in the midst of happening – nearly impossible to take eyes off of. I saw a guy doing push-ups while holding a Bosu ball (ball part face-down) – he’d push down, then push up, then he’d lift the ball and his torso off the ground. That was one rep. He did maybe a hundred of those. And while I was burning calories watching him, I caught out of the corner of my eye, this other guy doing double dutch moves where he was swinging two giant ropes in his hands, making them dance. After he was gone, I casually wandered over to the ropes and picked one up. It was shockingly heavy. And he was tossing two around like they were kids jump ropes.
In addition to the brawn on display, there was also quite a bit of beauty. I saw more tattoos than I’ve ever seen in one place before – a veritable art exhibition glistening on tanned and toned skins. I saw women one would not find in nature, molded by scalpels, lasers, and chemical peels; sucked of fat, smoothed of lines, stuffed with implants, and utterly defying gravity. I learned a new phrase recently, “butter face,” which means she’s hot… but her face. That term definitely applied here. In the locker room (not that I was staring, but there’s a lot of showing off going on), I got an uncensored look at these ladies, and was blown away at the sight of literally not one single set of real boobs. Even the older feline-faced ladies had overplumped balloon-like bosoms, their skin stretched to the max, pregnant with silicone twins. The steam room dynamic is a whole other blog post to itself, but I’ll summarize by saying that one woman made me very uncomfortable with her heavy breathing and groaning.
I won’t be joining the gym for a whole bunch of reasons, even though a part of me wants to get a trainer and whip myself into shape and get a tattoo just to fit in. In the end, the best part of it was that it gave me some writing material. And that fulfills my most important new years resolution… To write more.