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.
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.
Luv a great Legally Blonde paraphrase.
ReplyDeleteShut up. You're not 40.
ReplyDeletego stevie! even at age 60 (me), opinions don't matter!
ReplyDeleteis it sad I got that reference immediately?
ReplyDeleteI laughed at the Special K comment too. Not at you - at them.
I thought this one of the best expressions; I hope to use it soon.
ReplyDeleteI just learned what Special K is
ReplyDelete