Inappropriate Elvis

Note: This post was written before the gym and I embarked upon our brief trial separation thanks to my wonky hip.

My gym has a juice bar and they sell smoothies billed as "healthy shakes."  At the start of each month, signs all over the gym proclaim the monthly shake special.  It usually has some sort of lame name (in December there was a Grinch shake).  I never buy the shakes and only half pay attention to the signs.

But this month, the shake special is "The Elvis."  I've a soft-spot for the King and when I saw the sign I immediately pictured my favor Elvis:  the one in the white jumpsuit, with the giant sparkling belt buckle, and wearing sunglasses indoors so that no one can see his by-then permanently dilated eyes.  It's the circa '70s Elvis, and he's anything but healthy.  No indeed, he's unhealthy Elvis; the Elvis who loaded up on codeine, Valium, morphine, and Demoral and then expired while sitting on the crapper at Graceland.

For obvious reasons, yet again I took a pass on the monthly shake.

Gym Rant

My gym has acquired 8 new elliptical machines, a treasure trove of workout riches that delights me beyond reason.  What doesn't delight me beyond reason is all the New Year's Resolution gym-goers, who sometimes hog the good machines and who otherwise can't seem to manage anything without ample instruction.  I'd like to say that I support you in your New Year's Resolution, newbie-at-the-gym, and in principle, I do.  In practice, I want you to get the hell out of my way.

Case in point: Wednesday, when I had already begun running on one of the shiny new elliptical machines, the woman on the machine next to me kept trying to make eye contact.  I ignored her for some time, though it was a challenge, thanks to the way she wiped down the machine with the antibacterial wipe.  I've never seen someone so thorough with the job…..was she going to climb on it for a workout or did she plan to French-kiss the machine?  It was unclear.  Anyway, there I am, a good 5 minutes into my workout, concentrating on the task at hand and avoiding even a glance in her direction, complete with magazine on the reading rack and headphones in my ears, when Antibacterial Sue actually touched me to ask for help.

Touching a stranger at the gym?  In New Jersey? Lady, you could have been shot.

I smiled a thin little smile and kept running,  while encouraging her to talk with the scary personal trainer who roams the area frightening gym clients.   The Terrifying Trainer has a Cuban accent and Stalinist attitude and wears so much makeup and hair highlights that she's succeeded in becoming a gross caricature of a human being.  She looks like a stern clown in gym shoes.  Like everyone else at the gym, I'm afraid of her.

Antibacterial Sue was not up to the challenge of asking Terrifying Trainer for help, choosing me instead.  So I relented and showed the newbie how to program the machine for a happy little workout.  I was nice, warning her to go easy until she got used to the machine.  Then I returned to my sweaty workout and my mean little little thoughts.