Sunday afternoon, after lazing about in my pajamas and annoying the mister, who was trying to study, I went to the gym.
That guy was there.
There are certain people you see at the gym, certain people that are just stereotypes on feet. Muscebound men. Women with more boobs than brains. People who GRUNT with every weight lifting rep they do. Short men lifting the equivalent of a Volkswagen. The bendy people. The guy who runs a 6 minute mile pace for so long you start to wonder if he’s bionic. Those people.
But there’s only one guy I refer to as “that guy.”
He’s short-ish, a couple inches shorter than me, but I am fairly tall. He’s old-ish. In his mid-fifties, perhaps, with his curly red hair and beard going to gray. He’s annoying as all hell.
Sunday was no different. Despite the fact there were dozens of open machines, that guy hopped on the elliptical right next to mine. Well, first he wiped it down with not one, not two, but three of those wet-wipe thingies the gym provides. Then he hopped up on it. He then wedged his water bottle into the cup holder. The water bottle was not full of water. It was a Dasani bottle, sure enough, but it had been emptied and refilled with tomato juice.
Then, that guy took the cap off the bottle and dropped it onto the floor, the better to fill my nostrils with the unpleasant and cloying aroma of V8.
Then, he put in his headphones and began working out.
Two minutes later, he started SINGING.
I was wearing ear phones and listening to a rather juicy audiobook,* but I could hear that guy singing over the narration.
I shot that guy the look. You know, the one that says shut it or I will push you off that elliptical, little man, and crush you like a bug.
He shut it for a few moments.
Then he began singing again. His music had apparently switched to Sinatra. I tried the look again, but that guy had his eyes closed, a rapturous expression on his face.
The girl two ellipticals down met my gaze though, and we shared a moment of joint eyerolling.
That guy opened his eyes and caught the glare I was sending his way and stopped singing.
Repeat for the next 15 minutes, and you have my workout, and also why I will refrain from working out that early on Sundays ever again.
* Stranded, by Lori Foster. I am very bored at the gym and need to distract myself. Music is not enough. But I cannot read on anything other than a stationary bike because I get horribly, terribly motion sick. I do not get motion sick in cars, on boats, or in trains, but the elliptical + the latest Women’s Health = regurgitated ham and cheese on rye. So, I either watch TV episodes on my ipod or listen to audiobooks. And if I’m going to listen to an audiobook, something I normally find annoying because I could read so much faster than they speak, if only I could read on the treadmill, I’m going to listen to something smutty and completely inappropriate. Romance novels!