the gym makes me hate people. more.

This is probably the most anticlimactic and unsurprising sentence well, ever, but I hate the gym.

No, I don’t love the whole having to constantly put one foot in front of the other at speeds that should really only be attempted by wheels, not feet, ohmygod I just want to stop and drink a glass (or 7) of wine thing. But I do it. Because 1.) it makes me feel all shiny and new and ass kicky and 2.) if I drink a glass (or 7) of wine and do not do the spastic cardio thing I will look like Kirstie Alley rather than Christy Brinkley. Also? I like candy.

So while, like the other 1 billion percent of the gym-going population (just a rough estimate), I don’t love the treadmill in an ohmygod yes! yes! yes! kind of way, I don’t hate it in a stab! stab! stab! kind of way either.

Nope. My vitriol for the cold, gray, behemoth full of machines I don’t know how to use and classes I will never take can be described in two words that pretty much exemplify everything wrong with the world, but because I’m me, I’m going to use 118:

Dear gym goers,

Hi. It’s me. That girl that stays on the treadmill for longer than the allotted 20 minutes and pretends she can neither see nor hear you because she has earphones in. We need to talk. This? Right here? Is a gym. You don’t need to do your hair. Or makeup. And you shouldn’t be wearing jewelry. You should however be wearing more than what can only be considered panties and a bra. When you come with pageant girl curls and spankys on and then hop on the recumbent bike and pedal 0.0001 miles an hour, everyone is well aware you’re there to get ass. Not tone yours. You look stupid.

Kisses, hugs, and napalm,

Katie

Wondering what those aforementioned, all encompassing two words were: Lulu Lemon.

I’m well aware that, theoretically, the gym could be filled with hard-bodied specimens of the make-me-drool variety, but in reality most of the options are overly-cologned Jersey Shore extras. Me no want!

So. I’ve employed a tried and true method to make sure men/women/person shaped things of ANY variety don’t approach nor  talk to me while I’m in the run.run.run because there’s wine.wine.wine. zone, and because I’m so generous today (thank the mid-afternoon chocolate), I present it for you and trust you will receive equally stellar (and blissfully silent) results:

1 part unwashed ponytail

A dash of scrubbed pores (blemishes are an optional but entirely helpful addition)

A heaping helping of headphones

1 bitch face (full potency)

A sprinkle of affected ignorance

2 mismatched socks

1 pair of camel toe inducing leggings

½ of an oversized t-shirt (preferably with an unknown and awkward business on the back ie. toilet plunging)

And a pinch of some serious side-eye.

Stir until saucy. Enjoy.

And if that doesn’t work, well you can always just tell them to fuck off.

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~ by rubylocks on March 11, 2010.

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