The Countdown to Wetter Abs.

There ought to be a law or something; for construction sites, whether they are commercial warehouses, track homes or just plain traffic light repairs. A law specifically prohibiting the stopping of traffic on notoriously busy thoroughfares during “rush hour” traffic. What should have been a 20-minute drive was in serious trouble when I realized 30 minutes had already gone by. I was not quite halfway to the gym, where my trainer was about to get paid for surfing on her smartphone. Oh, I’m sure Naomi would have been a little put out, considering I was the reason she had to get up and be at work by 7am only to find she had no one to torture for her efforts.

I inched my car forward a few feet, beeped the horn and put in a call to the gym.

“Hey you!” she said with the distinct undertone of “Where the hell are you?”… “I’m in traffic, still barely out of Sherwood… I don’t think I’ll make it by seven”… After going through a few rescheduling options which wouldn’t work for me, she asked… “Well, how long do you think you’ll be?” I moved the car forward a few more feet and stopped… again. “Well considering I should have gotten there early but now I’m gonna be late, I would have to say I have no reliable math equation for that question”… Naomi was not impressed as I was by that answer. “Just do the best you can and when you get here, we’ll see what we can do.” she quipped… “Ok, bye!” I chirped as my car lurched a few more feet.

When I finally arrived at the gym I was 10 minutes late, and still needed to get changed. I rushed so quickly to get my workout clothes on that I missed a very important detail I had already missed earlier that morning… more on that later. As I hobbled out of the locker room my old friend Tony appeared and proclaimed “Odb, what’s happening?” I had no time to chat like normal so I kept moving as I shouted, “Oh man, I’m late”. I could hear Tony’s laughter fading as I turned the corner and made my way to the gym. By this time I was now 15 minutes late; more than half my session time was gone.

So we rushed out to the floor and Naomi started running me through exercise routines I was already familiar with; thus cutting down the amount of time she would spend demonstrating exercises I didn’t know already. We focused on my core with things like weights, planking and the, oh so much fun, “Superman”. While I was on the floor doing a series of stomach crunches she said we’re doing the 5-minute core program; I started laughing. “What’s so funny?” asked Naomi. “I was just thinking about a joke I saw in a movie about 8-minute abs,” I said, grunting as I rushed through another crunch. “8-minute what?” she asked. “8-minute abs… you know, in the movie?… Something about Mary?” – “oh yea” she chirped, “I think I saw that when I was a little girl”… I stopped my crunches for a second and looked at her in utter disbelief. “Crap I’m old,” I said. “Anyway, it jokes about the silly notion of 7-minute abs being better than 8-minute abs. It struck me that’s kind of what we’re doing now, trying to get my workout squeezed into half the time”… Naomi just looked at me like I was speaking in high-pitched bat noises. Jokes are not funny if you have to explain them.

After running me through a fairly aggressive series of core exercises Naomi bid me farewell. To make up for my lost time, I continued with a few more exercises working up a good sweat, and then headed to the locker room to suit up for the pool. That’s when I noticed a key item missing from my bag; I had no towel.

I sat for a moment and debated what I should do next. I could run to the front desk and see if a towel was left at the lost and found. But the thought of a used towel seemed a bit desperate. I could just change into my cloths and put up with my stink all day long but that didn’t seem like a good business decision when it came to my customers. I decided I would go ahead and swim my laps, get a shower and do the best I could to get dry.

So I went for a swim.

After my swim and getting a good sweat in the sauna, I showered off and proceeded to do – for lack of a better term – the squeegee dance.

The Squeegee Dance: Using one’s hands to swipe away excess water from various parts of one’s naked body, being very careful of course not to injure one’s tender parts.

Not only was this not effective, but the whole process seemed to generate a lot of attention from the locker rooms. But then I suddenly realized the sauna might be just the ticket. I spent the next 10 minutes stepping into the sauna and stepping out, trying to find that magic balance between wet, dry and sweaty. By the time I was done I had pissed off two guys trying to work up a sweat only to have me letting their hot air out of the sauna every few minutes. Frankly, the whole method didn’t work very well anyway because I was still fairly wet, and my internal thermostat was so whacked that for the next 15 minutes after getting my clothes on, I was still sweating like a kazoo player in a rock band.

As I was leaving the gym I noticed a young lady asking for something at the front desk. While I tried desperately to peel my damp shirt from my flabby aching abs, she was handed, what appeared to be, a nicely folded, fresh smelling, clean, dry, towel. Tony was finishing up his workout across the gym, but he swears he heard a noise like Chewie the Wookiee as I staggered out the front doors. Like I said, there ought to be a law; or something.

© 2016 db, Darrel Boyd

Thoughts on the Swing

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