Monday Night Gym Time

Don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey.

This week I've been on Spring Break. Although in years past this would prescribe a road trip, this year's road trip never materialized. The freedom of not going to class on Monday night gave me a brilliant idea. It's Monday night at 5pm, I'll go to the gym. Somehow, the perils of going to the gym on a Monday evening somehow escaped me.

Picture it; Dallas 2002. Steve walks in to the weight room of THE gay gym in fabulous and unique brand new shorty gym shorts. It's a wall of gay boys sporting the same brand of shorts.  After carving out some territory in front of the mirror for some arm curls I begin to flirt with a fellow gym bunny. Wearing the same style of shorts. We were hitting it off nicely, despite the completely over crowded gym. This was, until he mentioned how hard it was to work out on a Monday night after a weekend of Special K. When I agreed, but offered that I was a Cheerios guy, I received enough laughter and judgment from every gay within a ten foot circle to leave the weight room quickly. I was thirty and opinions mattered.

I haven't worked out on a Monday night since.

When I walked through the gym this week, the memories of how hellish it is to attempt to workout on a Monday hit me like a wall.  Followed by a "fuck it" I'm working out. It went well, since I'm not used to having to "work in" with people (as I usually hit the gym around midnight) it was kind of nice to actually interact with other real humans. Only one little queen attempted to toss shade.*  This happened  when I was apparently taking to long with a bench. I spouted, "don't stomp your little last season Nikes at me, honey" to the laughter of him and every gay within a ten foot circle.  I'm forty and opinions don't matter.

*look how topical I am. 

Maintaining the Mean

I am not a fan of clutter. This may be part of my homosexual training in “clean surfaces.” Part of the homosexual agenda that pushes a simple and clean esthetic, and to force straights to no longer keep their toasters out on the counter, or large bowls of decorator soaps on the back of toilets.  Pushing and forcing our agenda on America. An agenda of tasteful design, simplicity in form and function. When clean design solves a functional problem as simply and elegantly as possible, the resulting form will be carried to success by the gays. 

That being said, I had a personal intervention last night…..

Yes, I am working fifty hours a week on top of going to school. I still should be able to keep my desk clean. Yet at the bottom of the pile is the box my Mac came in… over a year and half ago. And that’s the issue. When I purchase fun toys, I don’t want to part with the box. Like unwrapping and unboxing is such a high, I don’t want to just toss out the package. If it didn’t just smack of effort and crazy, I’d be one of those “unboxers” on Youtube. Those people that video the unboxing of any new electronics, and post it to YouTube. If I start, I welcome any smacks to  the head. 

So, I just keep the bags and/or boxes to hold onto the thrill of opening the new item. Well, it may also be warranty and return purposes. That doesn’t mean I must leave them on my desk so I may contemplate when I should be writing a paper on Aristotle’s philosophy on happiness in human nature (no irony there). 

Yet it does bring the reason why I still have the bag for my Coach wallet. “Happiness depends on ourselves.” Aristotle enshrines happiness as a central purpose of human life and a goal in itself. A new Coach wallet, although completely shallow in its happiness, makes me happy. Aristotle argues that virtue is achieved by maintaining the Mean, which is the balance between two excesses. I don’t depend wholly on wallets Swatches for happiness, they’re tiny treats for working fifty hours a week and going to school. I maintain the Mean. 

Now if only I could get the bags and boxes off my desk to maintain my clean desk… that’s another issue. I am not a fan of clutter. 

John Grant Doesn't Love Me Anymore

To reward myself  for surviving midterms, I finally purchased one of those radios that link directly to one’s iPod. By making it through all of my midterm papers and exams, I mean being able to bullshit on the topic of John Locke’s Natural Rights theory in five pages without doing any research what so ever. I received an 85% percent on the paper, but since it just screamed of effort to which I employed none, I’m proud of that 85%. 

I do love my iHome clock radio. It has a magical quality that seeks out the most ironic song on my playlists and gently wakes me up to that needed song. As my mind is an underdeveloped monkey brain, that song gets stuck in my thoughts and I end up singing it all day long. Yesterday is was Kylie Minogue’s - Your Disco Needs You.  All day….

Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
Your disco, your disco, your disco needs you
We're sold on vanity, but that's so see through
Take your body to the floor, your disco needs you
From Soho to Singapore
From the mainland to the shore

It does wonders for my much needed happiness levels. Well… lately I’ve become utterly obsessed with John Grant. You should check him out, amazing singer-lyricist. His music is haunting. But be warned, some complete dickface broke his heart. His new album, Pale Green Ghosts is exorcizing all that pain. I discovered him listening to the title track, there was a line that read “I take 25 and 36 to Boulder” which seemed odd to me since I was taking highway I-25 to I-36 to Boulder. It was love ever since. My IHome and iPod; however, decided to play Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore one morning. 

I feel like telling everyone To fuck off all the time
'Cause they don't know.
Why don't you love me anymore?
Tell me--why don't you love me anymore?

Which is fun to sing running around your place of business. It’s funny because it’s true; I do feel like telling them to fuck off all the time. Irony. One day I shall marry John Grant. 

The Asian Grandmother

As I approached the front door to my gym tonight, I came across an elderly Japanese woman, probably in her late nineties, with her hands extended in front of her clapping. Her hair was a little matted, jade jewelry clanked as she wiggled. She appeared to be like every Japanese grandmother I'd ever met.  At first I thought maybe she was applauding my efforts of dragging my dried up carcass to work out. As I approached her smiling face I began to think "Wow, somebody cares. Someone is glad to see me today. I can do this!!!" I was overcome with happiness as I came close and realized that the smile on her face was directed onto an imaginary spot somewhere above my head. Most likely, she was communicating with some unseen thing, or entity.

 By that point I was happy. It. No longer mattered if an ancient Asain grandmother was cheering me on. Her complete happiness sparked the flame inside of me. I worked out happy. As I left, she was still standing there. My good wishes fell on deaf ears. 

Running Non-Stop

I just might of survived mid-terms. Even after I received an email yesterday from my Ethics Professor stating that I uploaded my seven pages of quasi-halfhearted paper on Kant -V- John Locke in Pages instead of Word. Sometimes I forget to convert to a MS world. All and all, I'm still breathing. This was on top of my work getting crazy and forcing me to work way more on craziness than I like. 

That being said, I have carved out some quality athletic shoe shopping time. It's a sad addiction, I'll scope out cool shoes on the "Dudes" at the gym then go buy them at my first oppertuity. The sales clerk at my Sports Authority in Cherry Creek Mall  is now sending me personal emails on any new runners. 

I dated a guy, back in Dallas, who had his credit card on file at The Throckmorton Mining Company; I thought it was a little sad. Now I understand why he did it. 

Gotta run, there's a sale at Sports Authority.