Workin' Out The Kinks
Well, one pretty excellent thing about the new digs is the local gym.
I couldn't think of anywhere hot and poppin' on a 'Burgside Thursday (oh, Tribal Style, I miss you), so I ended up watching hours of not-quite-pornography on Cinemax last night. Certainly, by next Thursday, I will remember that happiness is what you make of it, and, empty bars be d*mned, I will have a marvelous time once again. This week, though, I am a daytime chickie, blinking into the sun, and memorizing the alien terrain around me.
This morning, I finally found the gym, and I must say it is head and shoulders above the Central City YMCA that I usually patronize in Ybor. I really love my Central City Y, but I guess I did know that it isn't very well-equipped. I just really like the other patrons there, the soft-spoken felons who hoist free weights and talk about how church is better than prison, the killer hot young guns who play basketball for hours on end. I have never been bothered by the concrete everything and the complete lack of any color besides gray.
But the St. Petersburg YMCA! Wow! There is, like, literally three of every machine, and they aren't those industrial-looking white steel ones, either. No, these are molded rubber and plastic with air-pressure systems instead of loud, clanking bars. They look like they should be used only by shirtless GQ models.
Everything works on pulley systems, which, if you know anything about resistance training, is a much superior means of guaranteeing that lithe grace we all sweat for. The main room has twenty-five foot ceilings. The lighting is bright, but not aggressive. Everything smells like cleaning chemicals, and a cheerful employee spent the entire time I was there making round after round wiping down each machine. It was seriously the best 'Burg experience I've had all week!
I went to a gym like this in the Dirty Jerz and paid a hundred and twenty bucks a month for it, so I'm not sure how the YMCA stays in business offering me all this for, like, six bucks or something stupid like that. I suppose that's what happens when everyone within ten miles is part of the Protestant Ascendancy, though - your local YMCA gets all the money while the 'hood full of ex-cons runs constant fundraisers and still has cracked jump rope handles. (Hey, is that a social conscience peeking through those diamond princess abs?)
The other thing that happened while I was there was kinda strange, too. I do this thing at the gym - I'm sure you also do it without realizing it - where I tumble into a parallel universe of perverse sexual fantasy. For, like, the entire duration of my time there. This happens almost every single time, and I am never aware of exactly when my brain starts heading in that direction, or what specific thing I am imagining while at what station, or anything like that. Afterwards, I sometimes think that my brain and body have totally detached from one another, because I rarely remember actual workouts, but I always know, very intuitively, what muscle groups I have worked on and at what level of effort.
Of course, this happened again today, where I was off in that mental universe of ribald enterprise, when I skipped off the treadmill and sauntered over to the mirror to admire the nexus of hamstring and backside. I have no idea if that's actually a muscle with a different name, but mine is kinda perfect, so that a certain gentleman of my liking could get the palm of his hand lined up with it exactly, were he so inclined.
My eyes were locked in on this spot, quite evaluatively, but my head was engaged in a hardcore, poolside oral sex-a-thon. Suddenly, I noticed this guy staring at me, and he saw me see him, and, I don't know what's wrong with me, I became completely unnerved. I did the whole frozen smile and blush, widening into an oh-sh*t-I'm-so-busted grin. I looked down at the floor. I couldn't look up. I peered around in the mirror.
And, then, I realized, wait, wait, wait, Rachel*, that guy cannot see what you see in your head. He is looking at your ass, not your imaginary sextravaganza. Which, whatever, I very gracefully turned around, but, honestly, it did put the whole deer-in-the-headlights thing in perspective.
That has to have happened to someone besides me, right? It just seemed so completely silly. I fell into, like, some bizarre fugue or something and got the real universe and my brain universe confused.
Not that it's the first time that's happened or anything, but still.
I couldn't think of anywhere hot and poppin' on a 'Burgside Thursday (oh, Tribal Style, I miss you), so I ended up watching hours of not-quite-pornography on Cinemax last night. Certainly, by next Thursday, I will remember that happiness is what you make of it, and, empty bars be d*mned, I will have a marvelous time once again. This week, though, I am a daytime chickie, blinking into the sun, and memorizing the alien terrain around me.
This morning, I finally found the gym, and I must say it is head and shoulders above the Central City YMCA that I usually patronize in Ybor. I really love my Central City Y, but I guess I did know that it isn't very well-equipped. I just really like the other patrons there, the soft-spoken felons who hoist free weights and talk about how church is better than prison, the killer hot young guns who play basketball for hours on end. I have never been bothered by the concrete everything and the complete lack of any color besides gray.
But the St. Petersburg YMCA! Wow! There is, like, literally three of every machine, and they aren't those industrial-looking white steel ones, either. No, these are molded rubber and plastic with air-pressure systems instead of loud, clanking bars. They look like they should be used only by shirtless GQ models.
Everything works on pulley systems, which, if you know anything about resistance training, is a much superior means of guaranteeing that lithe grace we all sweat for. The main room has twenty-five foot ceilings. The lighting is bright, but not aggressive. Everything smells like cleaning chemicals, and a cheerful employee spent the entire time I was there making round after round wiping down each machine. It was seriously the best 'Burg experience I've had all week!
I went to a gym like this in the Dirty Jerz and paid a hundred and twenty bucks a month for it, so I'm not sure how the YMCA stays in business offering me all this for, like, six bucks or something stupid like that. I suppose that's what happens when everyone within ten miles is part of the Protestant Ascendancy, though - your local YMCA gets all the money while the 'hood full of ex-cons runs constant fundraisers and still has cracked jump rope handles. (Hey, is that a social conscience peeking through those diamond princess abs?)
The other thing that happened while I was there was kinda strange, too. I do this thing at the gym - I'm sure you also do it without realizing it - where I tumble into a parallel universe of perverse sexual fantasy. For, like, the entire duration of my time there. This happens almost every single time, and I am never aware of exactly when my brain starts heading in that direction, or what specific thing I am imagining while at what station, or anything like that. Afterwards, I sometimes think that my brain and body have totally detached from one another, because I rarely remember actual workouts, but I always know, very intuitively, what muscle groups I have worked on and at what level of effort.
Of course, this happened again today, where I was off in that mental universe of ribald enterprise, when I skipped off the treadmill and sauntered over to the mirror to admire the nexus of hamstring and backside. I have no idea if that's actually a muscle with a different name, but mine is kinda perfect, so that a certain gentleman of my liking could get the palm of his hand lined up with it exactly, were he so inclined.
My eyes were locked in on this spot, quite evaluatively, but my head was engaged in a hardcore, poolside oral sex-a-thon. Suddenly, I noticed this guy staring at me, and he saw me see him, and, I don't know what's wrong with me, I became completely unnerved. I did the whole frozen smile and blush, widening into an oh-sh*t-I'm-so-busted grin. I looked down at the floor. I couldn't look up. I peered around in the mirror.
And, then, I realized, wait, wait, wait, Rachel*, that guy cannot see what you see in your head. He is looking at your ass, not your imaginary sextravaganza. Which, whatever, I very gracefully turned around, but, honestly, it did put the whole deer-in-the-headlights thing in perspective.
That has to have happened to someone besides me, right? It just seemed so completely silly. I fell into, like, some bizarre fugue or something and got the real universe and my brain universe confused.
Not that it's the first time that's happened or anything, but still.
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