Tramampoline!

So it turns out the best way to make me not write a post for a fortnight is to say I'm going to write more than one post a fortnight. Blah blah fishcakes; whatever dudes; I've been busy. Or possibly I've been staring at Facebook and Craftster and who knows what else instead of Blogger and Bloglines. We all know I can handle only a finite number of Internet addictions at a time. But no! Seriously! I have had all sorts of stuff going on! I made a skirt. (Two of them, even!) I saved 50 starving kids. (Or so the dude at the place where I put in a measly two hours of time volunteering told us.) I helped my pal Carrie repaint her already freshly painted abode. I baked three times in a week. I finished watching the second season of Mad Men. I bought a toilet. Clearly lots of important stuff going on around here.

What I have not been doing is taking any more trampoline classes. My month of classes was up a couple weeks ago, and I decided not to pony up for another month just now. But since I am so good at waiting until something is so far gone that we've all nearly forgotten about it before I tell you about it, how's about I do that Q&A right now? Obviously I'm all about timeliness here. It's a special skill, folks. All right; no it's not. But it's how I roll, people. All things in due time. 

So then. You had questions! I have answers. Actually, you didn't even have all that many questions, so I have supplemented some of your fine questions with a few of my own. Feel free to decide amongst yourselves which are which.

Q: Trampoline class?!? I didn't even know that existed! Wherever did you hear about such a thing??
 A: Indirectly, through Facebook, of course. (Seriously, where else; am I right?) A seemingly superhuman acquaintance of mine posted an article about parkour (Note: This kind of parkour, not the kind Michael, Dwight, and Andy thought they mastered on The Office recently). That article linked to a video, which linked to an area gymnastics center that offers parkour and free-running classes, where I saw a link for "Adult Fitness" and decided to see where it led. And lo--trampoline classes! Who knew?? For the record, they also have adult circus skills classes, meaning I could finally learn how to twirl around in the air on long velvet sashes, just like Devotchka's burlesque girls. Maybe I'll try that next year.

Q: Is it one big trampoline, or does everyone have their own tiny trampoline? Is it one of those little round ones like my mom had in the 80s? (Do you even know what I’m talking about? A “mini-tramp,” if you will?) If it is one of those little round jobs from the 80s, please lie to us.
A: I DO remember the mini-tramps! I too am a child of the 80s, and my mom bought one of those as well. The mini-tramp did nothing to quell my trampoline fascination, though. Even as a kid, I knew that little, barely bouncy saucer was NOT A REAL TRAMPOLINE. It almost would have been better to have no trampoline at all than a lame, tiny useless excuse for one. The mini-tramp was a tease. (Which I suppose makes sense. Big, legitimate tramps rarely are, right?)

Q: So it's a big trampoline, then?
A: It is. And there are four of them. We take turns, which is fine, really, seeing as after several minutes, I generally need a break. Which brings me to...

Q: Is it good exercise?
A: Given that every part of my body was sore for several days after my first class, I'd say that yes, it is. A good portion of that soreness, however, likely came from the set of (spotter-assisted; I'm no She-Ra) pull-ups that a particularly drill sergeant-like woman (who was not even the instructor!) forces everyone to do before they leave the gym each night. I promise that the pull-up woman isn't the reason I decided not to sign on for more classes in November, but I can't say she helped my sticktoitiveness much.

Q: So, what sort of people take trampoline classes? What was the demographic in that joint?
A: It was actually a wider mix than I expected. Some were former gymnasts; some (like me) spent their childhoods wanting to be gymnasts and simply believe that trampolines always equal fun. Some stumbled across the class in a search for low-impact exercise options. And one guy was a strange, round-bellied, late 40-something in a royal blue sweatsuit and sport goggles. I really wanted him to be sort of awesome. Sadly, he was not.

Q: Have you learned new jumping moves? Do you do flips on it or just jog a little bit? Do you make up routines?
A: Yes, sort of, no, and maybe. There are five ways to jump on a trampoline, so we started by learning all of those. If you're curious about that (and I know you are), you can jump on your feet, seat, front, back, and knees. From there, we learned how to link various moves together, and by week two and three, I did a front flip and a back handspring with a spotter. The instructor flattered me by calling me a natural and a fast learner, but I never did master the easy combination they referred to as "The Kindergarten Routine," so the assisted handspring was a weak victory. 

Q: Can I come to your trampoline recital? 
A: Unfortunately, I don't think this gym hosts such a thing. If they did, I'm sure it would exclude quitters, so you still couldn't see me. Hence, no. 

Q: Do you still want a trampoline in your backyard?
A: Of course I do! Trampolines still aren't free, however, and I'm still a 35-year-old childless woman with neighbors, so I don't think I'll be doing anything about that any time soon.

Q: Are you angling for the Olympic Trampoline Team, because if so, I will see you at the Olympic trials, Missy.
A: No, but I may be hatching a not-so-elaborate plan to run away and join the circus. I have a feeling that in the circus, you're still allowed (and perhaps encouraged) to drink wine and stay up late. If Nadia was any indication, the Olympics require far more discipline than I'm willing to hone. That said, is there really an Olympic Trampoline Team? Because I would much rather watch that than that rhythmic gymnastics nonsense. 

Q: So that sounds awesome. Why on earth aren't you in class RIGHT NOW? 
A: Well, first of all, because it it not Wednesday. And also because trampoline classes are not free, unfortunately, and because this was one of those pay periods where I paid a few bills, had the crazy and reckless idea to buy groceries, and suddenly had no money left in my checking account at all. Also, since I am collecting reasons and excuses, going to trampoline class involves a bothersome commute down 35W, which is an always annoying stretch of interstate made even more problematic by the array of construction barrels and barricades and constantly shifting exit lanes featured right now. FYI, Minnesota Department of Transportation, I do NOT make a habit of texting, reading, or applying makeup while driving. You really don't need to keep testing me to make sure I'm paying attention, so how about you decide once and for all whether 62 East will be a right or a left exit and just leave it at that, OK? Ahem. I realize this is not L.A. or Atlanta (or for heaven's sake, Baghdad). I could be subjected to far greater trials than a weekly jaunt down 35W. I could also spend my Wednesday nights watching Glee from the comfort of my purple couch and my flannel pajama pants. This month, I choose that.

Tidbits without pants

1. First off, I should clarify that I am wearing pants. But for some reason, whenever I think the word "tidbits" in my head, it is followed by "without pants." Can anyone tell me WHY? Because I have no idea. I must have read it somewhere. Did one of you use that as a post title once? No? I'm just a crazy lady? I thought so.
   
   
2. Speaking of pants (or no pants), I am totally following Miss Pants's lead with the itemized list of randomness. How's it working for you so far? (Don't answer that.)
   
   
3. In the past 24 hours, I have squashed no fewer than four tiny flying gnat-like things in my bathroom and computer room. There is no food in my kitchen that might explain a fruit fly infestation, my windows have not been open for weeks, and my garbage can should contain nothing particularly organic or questionable at the moment. So WHERE are they coming from? I am terrified I am eventually going to find a rotting, scary, long-forgotten nectarine that rolled behind a piece of furniture somewhere, but I am too mortified (read: lazy) to look for it.
   
   
4. That reminds me of a story. Not the story involving the fruit fly infestation around my desk at work last summer (because I am still too horrified to share how that happened), but a story from when I first moved into my house five years ago. Because you don't have to worry about earning back a rental deposit when you sell a house, the previous owners didn't bother to clean a single room of my new home before I moved in. (I only hope karma paid them back nicely for that one.) As a result, I spent my first day here surrounded by boxes, on my hands and knees scrubbing my refrigerator, toilet, and bathtub. Good times. A couple days later, my good friend Lisa (bless her heart) came over to help me scrub away the sticky yellow grime that mysteriously coated nearly every surface in my kitchen. At some point about halfway into the project, Lisa looked up and cried, "I keep expecting to find a whole pork chop in here!" We never found one, but I wouldn't have been surprised if we had.
   
   
5. This afternoon, my favorite coworker sent me an email that said, "I am pulling an HMC* and leaving for a bit without telling anyone where I'm going. I'd explain, but I'm sure you would say it was TMI. I'll be back shortly." Because you can't get a message like that and not be curious, I replied, and she finally admitted that my half-joking guess was correct and she had some indelicate stomach issues that she didn't want to attend to in our office's not-so-soundproof one-seater located in a high-traffic area in the center of the building. I thought perhaps she'd made the quick drive back to her own house for the Home Toilet Advantage**, but she later explained that she'd instead run to the public library (a half-block away) and relieved herself there. Rather than being incredulous or mortified, I told her that was actually a brilliant idea and I would have to remember it the next time I find myself in a similar emergency situation. The problem, of course, is that now should I ever tell her, "I'm going to the library," she is going to think I'm using this new secret code to give her more information than she needs about my digestive tract. It turns out there's a reason we don't talk about this sort of thing in polite company, isn't there?
   
   * HMC is an acronym we use for the coworker we can't stand. It's not even that great of a nickname, so that's all I'll say about that.
   
   ** I just tried to Google my way back to the blog where I originally heard this term, and while I didn't find the one I was looking for, I did find a few other blogs that mentioned it. And because I was foolish enough to click on them, those blog owners are going to see me in their search engine hits and wonder about me the same way I have wondered about everyone who's ever Googled their way to MY blog with the words "human castration story." (I swore I would never type that here again, but frankly, the damage is already done and those searchers are never, ever going away, so once more really can't do any harm.)
   
   
6. The coworker we can't stand recently threatened to sue the gym where we all get free memberships. I think my boss is officially exasperated with her. Also, we learned that the gym personnel have their own special nickname for my least favorite coworker, and it's actually way better than ours. I cannot share it without giving away said coworker's last name, but I will say that it starts with "Evil" and rhymes with the name of a famous motorcycle daredevil named "Evel [something similar to my coworker's last name]." It's brilliant, really.
   
   
7. Speaking of the gym, I think a sixty-year-old man may have hit on me there yesterday. Or not. Maybe he was just being friendly. He glanced over as I was getting up from the weight machine next to him, and he said, "Is that enough weight for you?" Because I am paranoid, I answered, "Uh, I think so. Why? Am I a wuss?" He laughed and said, "No! I actually meant the opposite! That was supposed to be a compliment!" And then he followed me around the weight room, choosing the machine next to mine three separate times, twice clarifying, "I meant that as a compliment! I'm sorry!" Um, OK sir. I'm just going to turn my iFraud up a bit now, 'kaythanksbye.
   
   
8. Sunday night I went to a David Sedaris reading, and tonight I am going to a Sarah Vowell one. I'm pretty sure neither of them would ever type a random list of mini-stories and call it publishable. We'll just say that's one more reason I'm not the writer either of them is.
   

I promise I will find something to write about other than my own ineptitude soon.

Seriously, people. Did I recently somehow quietly swap fortunes with some even less coordinated soul than myself, ala Lindsay Lohan circa 2006? I'm sure there's a more mundane explanation than that, but there has to be some reason I'm so much more accident prone than usual lately. If I have switched cosmic places with someone, however, I hope he is cute. Also, I hope he isn't turned off by my current collection of bruises and battle scars. To recap, at the moment I am sporting the following:

• A scab on my big toe from when I got rear-ended last week. (Sidenote: No word yet from the kid in the Civic's insurance company, which means either he is very slow with the estimate-getting or my own agent was correct when she said Ms. Leadfoot behind me would have to pay for his damages. Let's hope for the latter. Whoo!)
  
  
• Three small red scars on my inner wrist and forearm from my bathroom-cleaning mishap.
  
  
• A rather persistent bruise on my right arm, of long-forgotten origin.
  
  
• A red scuff to the left of my lower lip--the remains of Monday's Lean Cuisine flatbread burn.
  
  
• And finally, the latest evidence of my undying poise: a bruise on my upper thigh and rug burns on my foot and thumb, acquired when I somehow fell out of my shoe on my way out of the office and lurched and stumbled all the way to the floor.
  

Luckily, I am absurdly busy at work at the moment, so when I made this graceless exit at 6:30 this evening, the office was nearly empty. Nearly. From two rooms away, I heard the owner of the company call out, "What was that??" To which I had to call back, "Oh nothing. Apparently I can no longer walk; therefore it is time for me to go home."

From two rooms further away, my own boss said, "Stef? Was that you??" Obviously I should have said, "No worries. This sort of thing happens all the time." Honestly, by this point it didn't even faze me. Of course I tripped on my own feet and hopped and skidded to the ground with a thud. Who here is really surprised about this by now?

I watched a movie last week in which Ione Skye claimed that what every woman is looking for is a man who makes her feel like the movie version of herself. I thought that was a charming and accurate sentiment. I just hope that when the right man finally comes along and meets Movie Me, what he sees is not a slapstick-prone Amanda Bynes.

On a related note, I hope this evening's fall has convinced my boss that I am not the most appropriate person to keep her company at our gym's new "Stiletto Strength" class after all. If I can fall and hurt myself while walking on carpet in Birkenstocks, should I really be exercising on a wood floor in heels?? I'm gonna go with NO on that.

Incidentally, the crazy stiletto class just further proves to me that the town where my office is located is the closest thing to Stars Hollow I've seen in real life. Can't you just see Miss Patty
standing in the doorway of her studio calling out instructions to a group of random townie women in sweats and heels? I sure can.

This just in: fruits and vegetables are GOOD for you.

People. I have been eating REAL food for eleven days now. No. Seriously! I am eating fruit! AND vegetables! And not just one or the other, but both on the same day! Often even multiple times in the same day! I will stop with the exclamation points eventually, I promise. It's just that I don't remember the last time I routinely consumed all portions of the food pyramid in anywhere close to their recommended amounts.

Do you know what is even more remarkable, though? I think this eating healthier thing is actually working. Within days, I started feeling better than I've felt at any point in recent (or not-so-recent) history. My perpetually sore hamstrings aren't always so sore. I don't feel like a creaky old senior citizen when I climb the stairs to my desk every morning. I've had no, er, stomach issues. (Don't worry; I wasn't going to write about those.) I have more energy and feel less sluggish. I no longer feel like my limbs and torso are filled with bags of sand and molasses. (I know--"Sand and molasses?" Yes. That's the analogy I've had in my head. Cancer victims visualize their good cells growing strong enough to overtake the bad. Poorly nourished women with overactive imaginations envision their insides clogged up with sticky, heavy goo. Or, this one does, apparently.)

I sound ridiculous, I know. This is not rocket surgery. My entire life I've heard "You are what you eat," and therefore, if I am eating crap, it should not surprise me that I feel like crap. But... who knew all that goody-goody USDA marketing and public service nonsense was actually true??

So. The eating better thing is going well for now, for the first time ever, I think. I'm still skeptical about how long it will last. (Until my stomach turns at the thought of another salad or fruit smoothie, I predict.) But for now, I am ridiculously proud of myself, and I can't stop talking about this to anyone who will listen. I'm all, "Have you heard about this thing called nutrition? It actually works! Yes! I'm as surprised as you!"

(Now might be a good time to point out how very lucky you are if you do not know me in real life. I promise I am more interesting than this, at least on occasion. I hope.)

In addition to feeling loads better, I'm also already noticing a wee bit less of the extra padding around my midsection that's been growing steadily for the past year or two. If the happier muscles and digestive tract aren't enough to keep me eating like a normal person (or, like a normal person is supposed to eat), then I'm hoping the prospect of weight loss will motivate me as well.

With that part in mind, I've also been trying to step up the exercise routine a bit. Long-time readers who are extra good at remembering everything I ever write will recall that my company pays for my gym membership, provided I go at least eight times a month. This has never been a problem for me; I rarely have a month where I'm there only eight times. Usually it's in the ten to twelve range... sometimes as high as seventeen (though admittedly, that month was a fluke). The problem is that in the past year or two, nearly all of those workouts have been over my lunch break, meaning they're often quite short and not particularly strenuous. I rationalize this by saying that doing half-assed workouts twice as often equals the same results as a proper workout the standard three or so times a week. Unfortunately, the full of my ass (and the muffin top above my waist band) disagree. So I've been trying to pick up the intensity.

Part of this has just been varying my routine at the gym. Instead of just alternating between the treadmill and the elliptical (followed by a few quick reps on the weight machines to finish), I've branched out and tried the rowing machine and the behemoth stair climber. I'm not talking about the traditional Stairmaster, where you lean on a set of upright handles and tap delicately away on dainty little pedals. No, I mean the massive and imposing machine that stands above all other machines in the line of cardio equipment... the one that looks like someone broke a chunk off of an escalator and placed it in a room as a sort of perverse Sisyphean punishment for all who step upon it. I've never had an inclination to even try the stairway to nowhere, until -R- spoke highly of it. Like -R-, my gauge of a good workout is something that "makes me really sweaty but does not make me want to die." With that ringing endorsement, I had to give the thing a try.

The other reason I've avoided the mega-Stairmaster is that it is situated directly in line with the television that's tuned to ESPN. You probably know by now (by the complete absence of any professional sports-related posts on this blog) that I could not care less about ESPN. I would much rather wile away my 25 minutes of lunchtime cardio letting my brain deteriorate in front of the closed-captioned TV airing Days of Our Lives. (Shut up; it is just a diversion. I swear I can quit any time.) As it turns out, the ESPN zone is the place to be. Not only do they have the crazy stair climber, but they have much fancier treadmills as well. People, did you know there are treadmills with built-in fan vents?? And fun little blinking lights that indicate where you are along an imaginary track?? Of course you knew that. Your gym probably has personal TVs in every machine and free pizza once a month. Mine does not. Let me take my small pleasures where I can.

So that is what I am up to lately. Blending up fruits and making lots of salads like Montel told me to, and speed-walking around an imaginary track. All of this should make for riveting conversation on my date tomorrow, obviously. What have you been doing lately?

I'll show you my power, Bitch

I've had this sort of weird, pinching pain in my abdomen for most of the day today, and what bothers me most about it is that I can't decide if it's from the kickboxing class I attended yesterday or if it can be attributed to any of the food products of questionable origin that I ingest on a regular basis. I'm pulling for the kickboxing explanation, but really you just never know.

The kickboxing class is a new addition to my routine. My gym canceled the Bosu class a while ago, leaving me with nothing to do with my Tuesday lunch hours but see what conniving schemes Sami and Chelsea are up to while I pump away on the Elliptical for a half hour or so. Recently, however, they've added a mid-day kickboxing class to the schedule, so I decided to check it out. It's been one of those "sore in muscles I didn't know I had" sort of experiments, which I think is probably a good thing overall. What's surprised me, however, is my response to the instruction style of this particular class. Our leader in this kickboxing endeavor seems to think that the best way to get us pumped and energized is to focus our efforts as though we have an actual enemy in mind. "WHERE ARE THOSE STRONG ARMS!?!" she shouts. "GET HIM!! HE'S RIGHT THERE! SHOW HIM YOUR POWER!!" she commands. A few months ago, I might perhaps have had a specific target in mind, ready to pummel my imaginary foe with all the strength in my girly biceps. Now, however? I don't know what's up with me, but I'm somehow in this Zen state of "Life's good, man; why you gotta rain on my parade?" I roll my eyes at the imaginary antagonism she invokes, thinking, "OK, fine; I'll give it all I've got. But I don't really need to punch anyone in the face to get me moving." Honestly, I think Eat Pray Love has something to do with it. Despite how long that book's been in my sidebar, I am digging it beyond any in recent memory. It's inspiring in so many ways, and letting go of all that nags at me is only one of the many things it's been teaching me.

I don't mean to imply that I'm pure and good and unshakable in all ways, however. Rest assured that my resident passive-aggressive surly streak is still well intact, without a doubt. Case in point? The parking lot at said aforementioned gym. On busy days, all spots in the gym's lot are occupied by suburbanites' SUVs and minivans and the occasional sensible vehicle or two. When this happens, the logical solution is to overflow into the adjacent clinic lot, a mere 30 feet plus a grass-covered median away from the gym's own and proper spots. The decidedly lazy among my fellow gym patrons, however, have decided that 30 extra feet is simply too much too endure, and thus, they park their cars in the no-man's land that is the brief connecting strip between the two lots instead.

During the winter months, when snowbanks presented even more of an obstacle between these two locales, the gym planted orange warning cones, designating the in-between space as a "Do not park here" zone. Now that the snow has melted and the sun in shining, however, it seems we are on our own.

I cannot explain why it irritates me so severely to see someone parked in the non-space between these two lots. Sure, it makes traversing the area a bit more difficult, as my visibility is impaired somewhat. But it's not exactly a high-traffic zone, so it really shouldn't affect me so adamantly. I think it's just the principle of the matter. I am a goody-goody and a rule-follower, after all, particularly when the rules mean minimal inconvenience on my part. To park in a properly marked and legal spot means walking a mere 30 feet beyond your expected path. Considering these people are at the gym, presumably to work out, should this really be such an inexcusable inconvenience in any way?

So the other day, when I saw a rude lazy-ass in that non-spot between the two lots, I decided someone really needed to be put in their place. I scrawled a note on the memo pad I keep in my glove compartment, fully intending to place it beneath a windshield wiper as my stern reprimand...



I fully intended to place this note on the offender's windshield... but then I saw a surly teenager coming towards me as a witness... and I noticed the mock-chainlink license plate frame and the barbed wire screenprinted seat covers inside the offending car... and suddenly I remembered that I am one part vigilante justice-seeker and three parts 'fraidy-cat chicken-shit. So I folded the note into my pocket, destined for no end-point other than my new Birthday Scanner, through which I can share my timid passive aggression with the Internets instead.

If the illegally parked lazy-ass happens to be among the microscopically small part of the Twin Cities population reading my blog, however? Then consider yourself warned, motherfucker.

There. I feel better now. Really I do.

We can't work it out

When I was a kid, my grandmother volunteered two days a week at her local St. Vincent de Paul store. Do they have St. Vincent de Paul stores everywhere? Maybe not. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, think Goodwill or Salvation Army. Same basic idea, I believe.

Anyway, my grandmother and her sister, my great-aunt, volunteered there two days a week, which meant they were supposed to go through the giant bins of clothing and toys and household items that people had donated, weed out anything not worth selling, and organize and price the remaining stuff for display on the sales floor.

What they actually did was raid and pilfer the bins for things that caught their eye and then burrow those items away before their volunteer supervisor could see. Not because the supervisor frowned on petty theft from charity organizations, mind you, but because (the way my grandma told it), she was a mean old biddy who wanted all the best stuff for herself.

Because of this ethically questionable racket, I did not receive any new (brand-new, from-a-proper-retail-establishment-new) clothing from the time shortly after I was born until I reached the fifth grade. Everyone with an older sister had hand-me-downs, but my hand-me-downs weren't just passed on from my sister; they were first worn by some other girl I'd never met, a girl whose grandmother presumably bought her pretty dresses instead of just stuffing them in her big purse alongside the sugar packets she'd snagged during lunch. Not that I minded, I suppose. At the time, it actually didn't even occur to me that this arrangement was in any way abnormal. New clothes were new clothes, and these were new-to-me, anyway. (Is this what it's like to be part of a crime family? Did A.J. Soprano grow up thinking his home life was mundane? Food for thought, I suppose, isn't it?)

Eventually, as I got older, I realized that it was actually possible to pick and choose your outfits from racks and racks of current styles. I did not have to cross my fingers and pray that someone would grow prematurely tired of her lilac-colored stirrup pants and toss them in a donation bin while they were still fully in style. No, I just had to convince my mother to take me to Kohl's or JC Penney instead of waiting for a bounty from my grandma. Easier said than done, of course.

How I felt about St. Vincent de Paul during my early years is basically how I feel about my gym right now. It has never really occurred to me to complain about my gym. The membership is free, courtesy of my employer, provided I go eight or more times a month. It's reasonably clean, reasonably well-equipped, and the number of meatheads and Barbie dolls there is minimal. It's the only gym I've ever attended, and with nothing to compare it to, I thought I had it OK. Until lately. Lately, lots of people have been writing about the little perks of their gyms, and I'm more than a bit aghast by what I'm hearing. Seriously... Movie theaters? Free pizza night? Your own personal TV?? Oh, the humanity. The injustice. I have none of these things. Is this how the other half lives, or is it actually how everyone but me lives? I have seen a glimpse of a better life (or, a better gym, anyway), and frankly, my gym now sucks by comparison.

My annoyance started with the towels, I think. I know in that pile behind the front desk are a number of thick, fluffy, bright-white towels large enough to cover all my most sensitive parts. Receiving one of those is like winning some small-scale lottery, however, because for every day I am lucky enough to wind up a proper and respectable towel I also have to endure six more days with a shrunken, threadbare, dingy gray towel that requires some possibly unintentionally alluring maneuvers in order to simultaneously cover both my knockers* and my ass.

Then there are the showers. At some point in the past few months, something seems to have happened with the showers (or with the water heaters that fuel the showers), because suddenly the hot water that should be a given is instead a rare commodity. Nearly all the women who shower there have figured out that the second stall from the left is the only one to reliably provide hot water, and as such, that stall is nearly always occupied. I now find myself hurrying through lukewarm showers actually praying for someone to flush a toilet, because the flushes that used to subsequently scald me are now the only thing that makes hot water flow from the showerhead for a bit.

My main complaint is the TVs, however. Have I mentioned the TVs before? Oh yes. It seems I have. To recap, however, at my gym, we have no personal televisions on each machine. If you want to watch something to pass the time while on the treadmill or elliptical, you have exactly five choices: CNN, Fox News, NBC, CBS, or ESPN. No Comedy Central. No Lifetime Movie Network. No All-Friends channel. None of that. Since I generally work out over lunch or after work, this limits my choices to news, fake propaganda news, talk shows, soap operas, or sports. I'm not proud to admit that I actually have a working understanding of the current plot lines on Days of Our Lives, but given those options, can you blame me?

So. Inferior towels, lukewarm showers, and a sadly limited TV channel selection. These are three things currently making me somewhat unhappy with my gym. Since it is Friday, how about I rattle on with five more?


Five things that have annoyed me lately at my gym

1. Although this shouldn't really affect me, it somehow bothers me just on principle that any woman would pay as much for a lovely pair of Danskos as I paid for mine and then would leave them atop the locker room coat rack for six full weeks or more. I have been tempted (embarrassingly tempted) to snag these abandoned Danskos for myself (as their rightful owner clearly wouldn't miss them by this point), but unfortunately, (A. They are one size too big for me and (B. Last week, I noticed a similarly abandoned pair of purple underwear resting atop them for several days. Oddly, the underwear are now gone. The Danskos, though? Still there. My memory of the underwear, however, remains, and if my scruples won't prevent me from stealing someone else's shoes, the thought of underwear contamination surely will.
   
   
2. I'm not honestly in any sort of scoping mode while working out, and I don't really think the gym is where I'm going to meet the man for me. Still, why are the cool hipster guys with the nice hair and the retro t-shirts always the ones with the wedding bands? And why are the balding men with the "egg on legs" physique**, wearing the tapered-cut running pants and baggy long-sleeved t-shirts always the ring-less guys whose eyes wander over to me?
   
   
3. Yet another of life's pressing questions is this: when the gym provides free childcare during your workout, why wouldn't you just leave your kids there another 15 minutes while you change and get ready to leave? I really don't want my breasts to be the first ones not attached to a blood relative that any child sees, but the slack-jawed gawking by toddlers isn't even what really annoys me in the locker room. Far worse are the kids playing tag around the benches while their mother idly turns the other way. I'm not a parent, of course, so maybe I'm more easily annoyed than is necessary or warranted. But still. Free nursery! Use it, please!
   
   
4. Since this list has suddenly taken on a question format, I'd like to ask one of the woman who came late into the step class the other night. Why, ma'am, when there are numerous wide-open spaces for you in any of a number of locations around the aerobics studio, why would you pick the approximately 36-inch space between my step and the one to my right and position yourself there, wedged in between the two of us? Why? No, really, WHY? You're in my dance space, sister, and I was here first. Step off and move elsewhere, OK?
   
   
5. I ain't no Hollaback Girl, and I'm really not a fan of having "Go! Bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!" in my head on constant loop after each aerobics class I attend. In other words, the instructors at my gym need a new CD. Prefererably one with nothing recognizable nor catchy on it at all. (And by the way, if I just implanted that refrain in someone else's head as well, I do apologize. Really I do. Welcome to my brain, though. Fun, isn't it?)

---------------------------------------------------------
* No, I can't believe I just typed this either, but I stared at the screen for a full 30 seconds trying to decide just which word to use, and for some reason this one seemed both the least clinical and least offensive. Substitute some other euphemism if you prefer; we all have our favorites, I'm sure.

** "Egg on legs"= round, egg-shaped torso with skinny chicken legs. Surely you know the look to which I refer.