Dear Why-the-fuck-are-we-still-having-to-talk Men:
*sigh* I thought we were done here. I thought I could move on from you and focus in on the annoying things that women do at the gym since I am an equal opportunity mocker. But no… no… you had to go and sweat didn’t you?
Like, whyyyyyyyyyyy do you all sweat so much? (And please spare me your poppycock theories on how if you don’t excrete fluids your internal body temperature will raise so high that you explode. Let’s get real.)
The next two examples are going to be filed under “Sweatgate.”
A couple of weeks ago I hit the gym for an evening of cardio. It was a busy night and so I discovered that there was only one treadmill open. I hopped on and began some awkward stretching. I turned to my left and discovered a strange sight: the treadmill belt on the machine next to mine was covered in water. I glanced out at the windows, wondering if a sudden hurricane had appeared without me noticing it, and was leaking through the ceiling. As far as I could tell, the skies were clear. That’s quite puzzling, I thought. Then I looked up.
There was a man running. He was about average height and somewhere in his 20’s. He was, I was happy to note, wearing appropriately long pants and a t-shirt. He was also wearing what appeared to be eight gallons of sweat. His aforementioned clothing was drenched, his hair was matted down, his arms shone like the light of a million suns was cascading down upon him, and every now and again an arc of sweat droplets would fly off of his legs and land God only knows where.
I decided to try out the ellipticals.
Last night I had a choice, mind you. A choice between watching the season finale of “the Vampire Diaries” (Team Damon!) or going to the gym to work out. I chose poorly. It was a weights night and as such I was hopping around various machines where I would sit and (spoiler alert!) lift weights.
It was when I plunked down at the third machine, that I also plunked down into my worst nightmare. I was under the mistaken impression that I was working out at a leg press machine, and not a puddle of fluid with a machine wrapped around it. Whatever creature had been at the machine before me had left easily twelve pounds of body juices upon the seat. I started praying that it was water and realized that in essence it WAS water… Water that had been through some kind of horrible radiation accident involving orifices, oozing pores, and possibly more than one sphincter. Along the way it had acquired a healthy dose of passengers in the form of I KNOW NOT WHAT.
Suffice to say, I decided that my work out was done, and that my pants may need to be burned.