May 30, 2006

Dear Shorty McBallSweat

I remember it as if it were yesterday, Shorty, even though it was last July.

You entered the workout room in all your flabby middle-aged glory, strutting proud as a peacock, blinding me with your brilliant plumage.

"Hi!" you shouted to me. "Jesus, it's like a freezer in here, isn't it?"

And with that introduction, you began dragging an exercise bike over to the wall with the thermostat. You then leapt awkwardly upon the bicycle and stretched your vertically challenged frame all the way up to the thermostat (you know, the thermostat that controls the climate in the workout room, the thermostat that was deliberately placed out of all but Shaquille O'Neal's normal reach, ON PURPOSE, to prevent every Tom, Dick, and Shorty from adjusting it to his own personal comfort zone? That thermostat, yes), and YOU TURNED OFF THE AIR CONDITIONER.

It was JULY, Shorty. July in the desert.

Then you used every single weight machine in the place, sweated buckets all over each, and failed to wipe down even one of them. You not only didn't bring a towel in with you, you failed to grab of the nice clean ones stocked in the workout room by the apartment complex management for the purpose of encouraging people to wipe down the equipment when they're done with it.

Listen, Shorty, there's this thing I want to hip you to, it's called Ashtanga yoga. It's a form of exercise just tailor-made for sweat-lovin' ballsacks like yours. You should take a class! It has everything you love:

  • Exercise
  • Brutally hot temperatures
  • But the workout room, Shorty, it is not for you. Did you notice? Did you notice that over the course of nearly a year now, no one has ever left the thermostat in the "off" position, no matter how many times you have set it there? Do you suppose there's a reason why your quest to maintain a sweat-friendly environment inevitably ends in failure?

    All a roundabout way of saying, Shorty, that if you fucking touch that thermostat again, I'm gonna break your teensy-tiny little hands. And for heaven's sake, buy some longer shorts. It's 2006.



    P.S. Seriously, you fuck, it's SUMMER.

    Posted by Ilyka at May 30, 2006 01:35 PM in navel gazing

    Went to a blues festival this weekend where a dude was dancing up front with back hair, sweat, gut, and thin cotton shorts--sans shirt. That really did give me the blues.

    Posted by: Hubris at May 30, 2006 02:41 PM

    You should try Hatha yoga. That thermostat is up to "grill your uterus" hot.

    Ashtanga, while it's nice to sweat, sort of defeats itself-it's hard to be all wet like an otter and trying to be bendy. There's no spirituality there, it's more like "dear God, please don't let me sweat on the mat. I-oh wait. Already did. Thanks for nothing."

    Posted by: Helen at June 1, 2006 12:27 AM