January 8

 

My Sordid Gym History

 

In my last entry, I mentioned Twitchy Steve and Ballys and I'm guessing by the confused email I received, some of you had no idea what I meant, so herein, I will give you the timeline of my past relationship with going to the gym, PLUS the story of what happened at Ballys. Hold onto your seats, it's gonna be a WILD RIDE. No, really.

 

Christmas 1998: I quit smoking. Nick asked what I wanted for Christmas, and I replied "A membership to the Y!"

January 1999-August 1999: I become a workout maniac. I am at the gym more than I am anywhere else. Not a cookie, a bowl of fried rice or a french fry passes my lips. I never get thin, but I get ripped. I'm muscular and delightful. Then, we go to the Outer Banks on vacation for two weeks and I don't do a thing other than swim, lay on the beach and eat. (Note: So you get an idea of what I'm talking about, please see here and here and here.)

August 1999: I return from the Outer Banks 10 pounds heavier. TWO WEEKS, people. Ten pounds. I sadly bid the Y farewell after noticing a fancy NEW gym. Ballys.

September 1999-August 2000: I work out sporadically. I get a bug up my ass about wanting to do something important with my life before I turn 30. Some evil reader suggests I sign up for the Boston to New York AIDSRide. I cajole a friend into doing it with me, raise a bitchload of money (with the help of my readers, because you guys are awesome!) and attempt to undo a year's worth of damage in three frantic weeks at the gym. It doesn't really work. I manage to bike about 200 of the 275 miles, but I was PISSED OFF the entire time. Man, I was unpleasant. I vow never to get on a bike or sleep in a tent ever again.

This is where Ballys starts going insane. In my year or so there, here's what happens:

1.) I hire a wildly overpriced and utterly useless personal trainer. His name is Steve. He is dubbed "Twitchy Steve" by me because the day I sit down and meet with him to discuss our goals, the following went down:

Him: *snort* *twitch* *throat clear* *snort* *head jerk* *snort*

Me: Hey, you want a lozenge or something?

Him: I HAVE TOURETTE'S!!!!!!

Me: I see!!!

So, Twitchy Steve was a terrifically nice guy, but didn't do too much for my ever expanding ass. He never gave me any kind of cardio program to stick to, and I basically flail around for a couple months, not really noticing any differences in what I looked like. He managed to make my hour training sessions last only 40 minutes, piggybacks my sessions with other people and spends at least 10 minutes of the "hour" chatting on the phone with other clients and/or boyfriends.

2.) The woman who did step class in her underwear. Folks, I'm not talking cute little panties here, I'm talking full on grannies with flowers. And not always clean. She pairs the underpants with weird tights, at least 2 pair of wildly oversized socks and Reeboks she'd clearly purchased back when Reeboks were The Shit. Lastly, she'd carry a bunch of torn and cut up towels into class and scatter them around the step. I was never able to figure that out.

3.) The guy with tits. Seriously. Bitch tits. He showcased his rack by never wearing anything other than a white wife beater, and worked out in skintight Lee Jeans. Your guess on that is as good as mine.

4.) Ball Show. Wandering around work, I noticed a guy who just didn't seem right. I mean, maybe he wasn't unwell in the head or anything, but he always wore really REALLY tight polo shirts and tight chinos hitched up to a place guys with working penises should never hitch if they're interested in having kids. He wore giant ambervision aviator sunglasses, had a weird ass part, and a short little beard. I never saw him speak to a living soul. He ate alone. Anyhow, one day in step class, the teacher was like "Goddammit, that guy is on the window again". Guess who it was? Right. Ballshow. Wearing supershort shorts and a tight muscle t shirt, tube socks hitched up to his knees. Rubbing against the window. Oh, but that's just the beginning.

About a month later, I was circuit training and I knew he was around. I sensed him. I looked up from whatever I was doing and saw him there, hanging out on the hip abductor, legs spread proudly for the world to see, WITH HIS BALLS HANGING OUT OF THE SHORTS. Balls! And he wasn't shy about it. Maybe the breeze felt nice. Maybe he was overheating. We'll never know. After some commiseration with Twitchy Steve, I wrote a letter to the gym manager, he was reprimanded, I got a letter from the Ballys corporate headquarters and it was about that time I realized that the Ballys/Dana combination was not one that could last. Between the flailing balls, the people in their underwear, the guy with the boobs and the man who shrieked as he worked out, it was time to part ways. I canceled my membership (after a sort of pissy call to the membership coordinators "You DO realize you will NEVER get such a low rate again?!" Me: "Lady, that club is for fucking CRAZY PEOPLE") and never looked back.

Next, I joined Elite Fitness because Nicole belonged. Sadly, by this time I was not even remotely into going and I might as well have taken my 325 dollars and crammed it up my ass, because I'm pretty sure I didn't show up more than 20 times in a year. I DID attend a yoga class with Nicole (Note: Here's what I wrote about that. I didn't read the entire entry, so I don't know whether or not I mentioned that Yoga gives me the church giggles.)

I let my membership there lapse in October of 03, and I haven't been back since. As you might imagine, my girlish physique is not quite as girlish as it was way back when. Factor in my age (I'm 34 and that's getting up there. What? It is.) and you have a very unhappy Dana on the elliptical machine.

 

And there you have it. If you scour my archives obsessively, or want to know more about the Ballshow business, google it. You can read the letter I wrote!

 

That's it. You all have a good weekend.

 

the other day - home- email - soon