Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been at this workout thing for almost three months and today I found out you are only supposed to pose on the equipment, not actually use it! Now that I’ve figured this out I may have to rethink my whole approach to this fitness thing. This epiphany came today shortly after Daughter #1 and I arrived at the new pit. Our new pit has two locations in our little valley. Yesterday we went to one, and today thought we would give the other a try.
In order to lessen confusion I guess I’ll have to designate these locations CCPit and VPit. Anyone familiar with our little valley will figure this coding out easily, but I’m not inclined to change it. I’m not really into protecting their privacy so if you’ve figured out the code, keep it to yourself.
So yesterday we went to CCPit where the clientele, minus the homeless guy (I think I mentioned him once upon a time), resembles the peeps at our previous – to remain anonymous, open twenty four hours a day- pit. There is a pretty good cross section of society here. Neither one of us felt out of place among the fellow self torturers. Everyone was doing their own thing. Most were diligently applying themselves to the use of the equipment, paying little attention to the rest of us.
We trudged upstairs to the cardio, as in cardiac arrest, floor where they keep the assorted racks, treadmills and lounge chair bikes. The assumption is – if you can make it up the stairs you are fit enough to use the machines. I made it all the way to the top and selected a half rack on the back row and programmed the onboard computer to ‘kill me now’. Midway through the workout it occurs to me that there isn’t a wall behind me. The open railing behind me affords anyone down below a more than adequate view of my backside. I’m not sure why this bothers me today, as at our previous pit the machines were so close together that my a** was no more than fifteen feet from the person behind me. At least here I’m a whole floor above these people who should be lifting those weights anyway. I can’t help but wonder what the guy at the bench pressing station can see.
I resolved to choose the front row tomorrow. It won’t insure no one will be peering at my backside, but at least it will be a finite number. I can live with that.
So this morning we decided to try out VPit. Now that we have a choice we thought it would be a good idea to know what our options were. We’d heard the VPit tended to be crowded and lines to use the equipment were not unusual. Since we go about the same time everyday it was worth giving it a look. The parking lot was full, but once inside we saw that the MOP’s crowd was busy in the classes, leaving the rest of the place open for the DYI torture enthusiasts.
We made our way to the locker room, blessedly empty, then out to select our method of torture for the day. From my front row seat in the crow’s nest I have a pretty good view of the weight machines below, and the wanna be starlets populating the area. There’s more artificial intelligence down there than I’ve ever seen in one place before and all of it is prominently displayed. Some have dropped a few coins on their flashy workout gear, but others must have tapped out the bank account purchasing their grade DD intelligence and are reduced to wearing only their undergarments.
A few clueless types (like me) are actually using the equipment, getting all dewey and winded, but most are practicing their spokes-model moves using the equipment for props. There are the solo posers, leaning this way and that. I can only suppose they are hoping to be discovered – by whom I don’t have a clue. None of the other C-25’s scattered around the place in little coed groups look the type to be offering employment. Apparently none of them have jobs of their own or they wouldn’t be hanging around the VPit in the middle of the morning.
Maybe they’re hoping one of these self absorbed people will offer to buy them some liquefied lawn from the juice bar in the corner. Yak and gag. I don’t care how hot that guy in the sleeveless t-shirt is sitting on the ab cruncher texting the collagen and Botox babe leaning on the thigh master – I’m not drinking something that my dog knows as the toilet.
Every few feet is another knot of steroid enhanced, M.D. sculpted, scantily clad, highlighted, radiation tanned, waxed, buffed and polished C-25’s. The body language is clear. I see you. Do you see my new artificial intelligence? I don’t have to hear them to know what they are saying. The conversation goes something like this:
George of the Jungle – Hey. I haven’t seen you here in a while. You’re lookin’ good.
Jessica Rabbit – I’ve been looking for work. (Translation – I went to two casting calls for extras.)
George – How’s that going?
Jessica – You know (hair flip), I haven’t found anything yet. A friend of a friend of my ex boyfriend got a call back for a part in a sit-com pilot and if she gets it I’m sure she’ll put in a good word for me.
George – Wow! Sounds like you’re doing good. You still live around here?
Jessica – Yeah (gum snap). I’m still at home. I’ve been saving up for my own place, but it’s hard. I’m still paying off my student loans for that semester I went to community college. Between that and my medical bills (draws shoulders back to draw attention to new artificial intelligence) I haven’t been able to save up enough for a deposit on an apartment. You know how expensive everything is here.
George – Yeah, tell me about it. I was going to move out last month. I had the place picked out and everything, but then I had to get my bro-truck lifted (see photo). Now it’s going to be a while before I save up enough. Nice tat, by the way.
Jessica – (Pulls spaghetti strap down, tilts head so hair shifts to opposite shoulder) Thanks, it’s new.
George – (Nods head in agreement) Cooool. (Turns slightly) I just got a new one too, see?
Jessica – Ni- ice. What about you? You working now?
George – Naw. I was a gopher for a reality show, but it was cancelled. I’ve just been laying back, you know, resting since then. I’m sure something will come up soon. (Adjust flat brim of his bro-cap).
Jessica – (Clearly ready to move on as this loser is not the sugar daddy she’s trolling for) Well, nice seeing you again.
George – Yeah. Ni-ice.
Daughter #1 and I head for the locker room. The classes have disgorged a horde of trophy wives who are busy remaking themselves before they go out in public. When your sole purpose in life is to look good it is unacceptable to walk out of the pit in dewey workout clothes, even ones with stylish names emblazoned across the butt. Most of these women are headed to the spa or the salon, or the nail place from here, then it’s on to the mall to shop the junior department at Macy’s. Hair dryers are buzzing, there’s enough makeup strewn across the counters to stock a good sized Sephora. Not a sports bra in sight. I knew I should have bought stock in Victoria’s Secret. What was I thinking?
Yep. I wish someone had told me this is how the beautiful people work out. I’ve been wasting my time getting all dewey and tired. There’s a whole other world out there. I’m coming here more often.
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