Deep in Vogue

Earlier in the year I headed back to 24Fitness as my primary gym. By this I mean I started going only to 24 verses Planet Fitness. This was prompted by many reasons.  The largest was an entitled 20-something woman who saw I was racking up weight on bar but still dropped her designer bag down and declared she “needed” the machine. At this point I decided I “needed” to not workout in a gym that doesn’t have homosexual gym goers as the majority. Yes, in that very instance I realized that I needed to be with my people. So back to 24 Hour Fitness I went.

As you may recall, during the pandemic all gyms were closed. And Stevie lost his pump. The first gyms to re-open with Planet Fitness. So I joined up. 24, who was already finically struggling re-opened only a fraction of their locations much later then Planet. Somehow Denver’s “gay gym” survived. I can’t explain why I continued to go to Planet, I guess it was a habit, or self- abuse. During this time I was slowly losing a lot of muscle mass, as planet is machine based with no free weights or plates to push. Until a sorority girl push helped me with her entitlement.  

I laughed about this again today as I was pushing through my last set on the preacher bar. There was a guy wearing, possible his little sister’s gym shorts and a half shirt with the word “Whore” written across it. He was at the mirrors on the free-weights full on voguing. Like full on “I’m gonna let you have it” voguing. This is when I knew that nature was healing and all was right in the world.

Gymuary.... Again

Ah, it's Gymuary again. The seasons just fly by until this time of year when suddenly the gym parking lot is filled with cars and the aimless individual's, in their new $200 control-top Jeggings wander down the middle of the parking lanes attempting to control the new Fitbit heartrate monitors. Inside is more of the same. A line has formed to check in behind a twenty-seven year old who feels the music on the overhead is too up-beat for her cardio time on the elliptical. Meanwhile, no one can hear the music as it is drowned out by the constant drop of plates and dumbbells as the forty-eight year old project engineer drops a 45lb plate on his foot because he was too distracted by his own refection in the mirror to re-rack correctly. 

I know they will all be gone on March 1st. That the "New Year New Me" resolutions will fade way until the next January. It's just silly how this happens every year. Even with the coming two year anniversary of our world wide pandemic, the gym is overrun with the well intentioned. And that's fine; more power to ya! I say go for it. And I hope it last beyond March 1st. But if there only a way for these new gym bunnies to know how to re-rack plates and to not pitch a camp site around a bench the may want to use in two hours time.  My ex would simply kick off the dumbbells use to save the bench (like laying towels down, poolside at a Cancun resort) and start using the bench. If the camper spoke up, the Ex would jab his finder in their space and scream about learning gym etiquette. I do that too; in my mind. But, Ohhhh the looks I give.... roasted. 

 

New Gym

What I thought would happen has happened. The chain that is 24hour Fitness entered bankruptcy protection. This means they are not re-opening my favorite location. They did; however, open the large central located facility, which happens to be the one I hate.  I could go to that location and return to my workouts. The reason why that location is so bad is because its filled with douchebags and also the gays. 

Yes, I will acknowledge that I am generalizing and stereotyping. But in my years attempting to workout there, I have had run-ins with both. There were the "bench bros" who place every weight they could possible use on a bench to commandeer it for the day, or the conversation pits.... were a rack turns into a social gathering spot. I really like a gym experience with lots of open benches and no conversation. I am a "preferred member" of 24hour, meaning about a million years ago I dumped a truck full of money on their reception desk and don't have dues until the space year of 3000 -- or until they go out of business. Which may happen any time. 

So..... I am searching for a new gym. 

Until then, I joined Planet Fitness. the "non-judgmental" gym. And ya, know what? It's kinda okay. They have all the free weights I need, they only have full racks for bench, which since I never have a spotter is probably for the best. So, until my dream gym comes along I be on the planet of fitness. 

Pandemic

Hey there; how's your pandemic going?

Mine is just fine. As an essential worker, I am guaranteed to not miss out of experiencing every bit of oddness this society has to offer during this strange time. My deep hatred of bars and clubs has turned into a positive. The city shutting down major avenues so walkers can social distance means walking adventures are more fun. I am actually having a decent pandemic.  Well, other than the gym. The gym closing down have not done me well.

Since I never did any cardio, and only lifted weights, not having the access to free weights was a shock to my system. I started to cry when I grabbed the handle to the gym's front door to find it locked. This meant that I would have to do.... home workout stuff... just imagine.  I first bought the typical dude-bro equipment. A pull-up bar for my office doorway, a fit ball to bounce around on, and new running shoes. Or, waddling shoes. Although I have warmed up to being the "workout outdoors type" wearing manly lycra leggings at all times now, the pull-ups are not ever going to by my favorite. Every time I reach the top of the stroke, my chin touching right below the frame of my well-appointed office, I see the a cartoon in my head from my childhood is stars an elephant. The elephant is attempting to pull his massive girth up a cliff. I am that elephant. Large, wrinkly, and grey.

I NEED the gyms to reopen.

I need to do arm curls using iron plates, not rubber bands. I need to rush out of work to go somewhere other than home. I find it strange to just leave work and go to my house. That's weird. But, at least I am non-dead. If you call not seeing your arm veins pop living. 

Steve in The Box

I have been attempting to eat in a healthier manner. This is a far cry from the back-lash of my stuff-everything-into-my-face-hole policy I employed after the Speedo clad cruise in February. There has been an increase of dinning on the Caesar salad at restaurants, and finding myself heading to vegetarian / Vegan place to dine. On my own. And enjoying it.

This is of course not calculating my dark, deep secret. My addiction.

I have been hiding this addiction from my friends and family. My complete chemical addiction to Jack in The Box. An addiction that I am powerless to conquer. As an example, I'll will give you last Friday: For lunch I ate my healthy prepared salad to get me through evening. I then left work after ten p.m. and made a straight path for Jack in The Box for a teriyaki bowl and three egg rolls. Which, I ate sitting in my Jeep in the parking lot of my gym.  After happy egg roll time, I did go have a massively great work out, so there is that. After the gym I headed to the bar which I then closed. As I'm friends with the entire staff, I hung out after closing to watch a series of strange events, including a round of  "foreskin shots. " Better if you don't ask. I was neither the shot glass, nor the drinker.  But, I finally, in my life, feel cheated in that I don't have a built in shot glass.

Around four a.m. I headed towards the ranch. On my way I stopped off at... you guested it, Jack inThe Box. Consuming a front seat full of horrible, tasty items like a bear eating a small goat. If the bear drove a well-apointed, yet dented Jeep.

So my secret is out. I require my friends to help me kick this self-destructive habit. A habit I'm powerless to stop.  Jack. I'm braking up with you.  I know you bring me instant happiness. I know how much you love me, yet it's a calorie filled empty love. You're just no good for me. 

Gym, or Jack N' The Box

"You move in the direction you think."

For me, walking out to the gym at 1a.m. covered in sweat with my headphones blaring, is the most triumphant and empowering part of my life. It's that feeling, one of being Alexander the Great standing over King Darius, that I crave. Yet, why do I forget that feeling when I want to skip the gym and head straight for the bar?

It is funny how I must re-learn this lesson, over and over. How we as humans sabotage our own happiness. I find that there is nothing better in my world than completing a great workout and to be filled with accomplishment. And yet, it is tough to shut-off the little part of our brains that does not  want me to have this feeling of happiness. As I feel it is not deserved.  Is this because we attach value to the negative beliefs and thoughts we have on deserving rewards? These nagging doubts on whether we really deserve what we're striving for; apprehension that we don't deserve success. It is that fear of our achievement that isolates us.

I guess I need to pay better attention. Tune into my thoughts. Listen to find out if they are trying to sabotage my goals.  Free myself from this cycle negatively impacting the things that make me happy. Spend more energy smashing these anti-sucess beliefs with a frickin' dumbbell.

Locked into New Possibilities

I have to admit I had not been to the gym in a while. There was a couple days missed along with checking out the gym in the Highlands. The Highland area of Denver, that is. The Highland location 24Hour Fitness is quickly becoming my favorite gym in Denver. This is due to the inordinate amount of smoking hot guys at all times. You can't swing a Nasty Pig jock without hitting a hot bro. And, I've tried.

I had not been to the gym in several days, it was midnight, I was very tired. As I reached into my gym bag for my lock, the same way for thirteen years, my hand came up empty handed. My lock wasn't in my gym bag. Gone. Forever.  I started to think back to when I bought that lock. It was upon joining 24Hour Fitness in Dallas, 2001. After the  all gay, glitter gym closed down without warning, I reluctantly joined the 24Hour on Mckinney Avenue.  I felt so common, having to purchase a lock, instead of the oak lined built-in-lock lockers at the fancy gay gym. But, I did.  Out were the free heated towels; in were working out with... you know.... girls.

All of this history ran through my head, as things do when you're getting older, and you're standing alone in your Under Armour in public after midnight.  One begins to reminisce about the old days, and things you once owned. Now gone forever. I raised my head; realizing that change is good. Change must happen in one's life. A new lock means new things coming into my world. I welcome new things. New people. New adventures. New..... oh.... that locker across the way has a lock on it that's very distinctive. Like mine..... could it have been left locked on an empty locker for all this time? I walked over, tried the well known combination, and snap. It opened. After days of  being locked there, no one had bothered it.

Some times, life makes you wake up to new possibilities in tiny ways. Some times, I'm
forgetful. 

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. 

Nothing But Net

If you follow my non sequiturs elsewhere on the web, you would have noticed that I have started going to the gym after midnight. This is for several reasons: I’m up anyway, the gym is empty and I don’t have to wait of equipment, but mostly it is due to my worsening Agoraphobia, or Anthropophobia. It is easier to have the entire gym to myself in the middle of the night. 

A couple of weeks back I stepped into the empty basketball court, just to get a drink of water. As I paused to wipe my chin I noticed the basketball court was completely flooded with light. A sense of emptiness was overwhelming as it usually was filled to capacity with guys at various stages of shooting hoops. That night it was deserted. The smell of the hardwood, along with the strange buzz left-over from high school gym class hung in the air.  I get a strange feeling on basketball courts. A feeling of wanting to be in control, wanting the mastery of the wood and colorful lines, the enjoyment and comradeship of competition. Yet, as I stood next to the water fountain, the feeling of eighth grade gym class washed over me. The same feeling I would get from sitting in the CEO chair in a board room, hosting a dinner party, or being in front of a naked woman. A feeling of not understanding what should happen. A feeling that everyone around me knows the natural chain of events (enjoys them in fact) but hasn’t let me into the circle. 

As I turned to leave the uncomfortable environment, I noticed a basket ball over in the corner.... Without thinking I went over and picked it up. I attempted to dribble. I wasn’t that bad. Until I hit my shoe. I walked out in front of the basket. All the technique I had ever learned was from Mr. Johnson’s gym class during the First Bush administration. 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Missed. 
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I left the court, and turned in the ball to the front desk as if I had a great game with my boys. The next night I found myself back on the wood. 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Not even close.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.

I had watched a dozen YouTube videos. I took notes on finding my aim...

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Hit the rim.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

I squealed. As I heard the squee bounce off the gym walls the glass court door opened and in walked a couple of guys talking to me in Greek about a “pick up” game. I pretended I was a deaf-mute and ran out of the court like a chunky eight year old girl running home, after the mean girls would not let her play Barbies. I left the ball on the wood.

The next night. I stood with fortitude. I announced to the empty gym, “This is Sparta!” 

Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.
Aimed the ball. Flipped the wrist. Shot. Nothing but net.

Rise and Shine

Starting this week I changed my work schedule to 5:00a.m. My coworkers and friends believe that I have gone insane, yet I am enjoying the change. It gives me three full hours by myself in the office. I can drink my Dunkin’ Doughnuts, Hazelnut coffee without fear of others usurping the office coffee maker, and I get most of my day completed before the normal day actually begins. 

Part of the decision was also based around the 24hour Fitness located down the street from my employment in lovely, downtown Boulder, CO.  It may be crazy that I am getting to work three hours early, just so that I can hit the gym at three instead of during the busy time of five, but it changes my workout tremendously. No longer do I have to modify my routine due to lack of access to a flat bench,

Just look at that clown! 

as are typically taken up by guys discussing next quarter's finical outlook on their creepy Samsung Galaxy phones, as they sport completely dry, $50 sweat absorbing tech shirts. Typically. Now I can camp on a flat bench, searching for songs on my iPhone, to my little sleepy heart’s content. 

I hope to adapt to the change of getting up at 3:30a.m. soon. Dear God, I certainly hope so. All the omnipotent power beheld within Dunkin’ doughnuts ground coffee, with its Hazelnuty fumes is the only thing getting me through this week.  

Gymuary

Oh, Gymuary. It seems that every year I blog about this amazing phenomenon.  For six months, you can toss a dumbbell down the middle of the weight section and not hit a soul. Suddenly, on January 1st there is a warren of gym bunnies hopping around the place. This year; however, I am one of the unkempt masses wandering around a new gym.

I was really excited about by new employment being so close to the 24Hour fitness in Boulder. I reminded me of living in Dallas when I could walk to my gym. As I excitedly walked into my new home-away-from-home it quickly dawned on me, I was attending this new congregation on the first week of January. Just like everyone else.

It is easy to spot the “newbies” in three ways; the easiest is by their plumage. Sweatpants that are a little too tight, since it hasn’t been asked to stretch over the newly expanded frame. The “I just bought new workout gear and it all goes together” guy that’s sporting an all aqua and chartreuse Nike ensemble. Not a single natural fiber on his body, bless.  And my particular favorite way is the “I read a massive amount of information in regard to how to workout in a gym” guy.

And this is were by petty bitchyness kicks in, because with all the information out there on “how’ to lift weights, and all the YouTube videos on pushing plates, there isn’t any information on how to be a considerate gym mate. A lot of YouTube videos will demonstrate how to super-set your routine, yet fails to mention that setting up five stations of weights around benches and stacking bars full of plates may help you, yet pisses off every bro that is forced to work around your inconsiderateness.  Just because you place a towel on a bench does not mean the bench is now your solvent territory. A terrycloth is not a British flag; the weight benches are not India.

Soon Gymuary will over and the routine will become just that, a routine. The dudes that need to utilize their phones to “check-in” with the office from the luxury of the incline bench will either fizzle out, or get tired of taking work calls with me in the background spurting, “Guurl, not a natural fiber on her! Sad.”  Like every year, February has us all back to being good, friendly gym mates.  

Gym Time

I finally found my "real" gym in the last month. A gym without all the trappings. No cardio queens, no angry Moms pushing past on their way to a "stretch and fit" class. Just hard working dudes pushing plates. The gym didn't even have air-conditioning, it was truly a hard core black iron gym.

This gym is the type of place where I didn't have to hear from the other half that I wasn't stopping to gossip and chat with the muscle queens.

"Joe told me you haven't been talking with him at the gym?" I heard on several occasions. This kind of social hair salon setting made me glad I found a working class, blue collar gym.

With the testosteronieness of this gym, I even rediscovered and found it easily to ramp up my work outs. I wanted to push past my "comfort zone" and perform at the level of the muscle heads flipping tracker tires in the parking lot.

I was feeling pretty damn happy for my self. Well, until yesterday when I read the noticed taped to the front door. The one with the really bad grammar explaining that the gym was either being clothed at the end of the moth, or that it was closing at the end of the month.

I found out the gym was closing.

Bummer. I guess it's back to 24 hour fitness for me. Plenty of time to stop and chit-chat with the gays.

Kicks Like Sleep Twitch

It has been days since my iPod randomly played The Editors Papillon. I've been running ever since. 





It really does kick like a sleep twitch. 

Dream of P90X

“Come on! Do it with me! We can totally do it together and no one will know. We’ll share the pain. “

Somehow I had fallen asleep during the afternoon. I usually don’t nap, can’t nap actually; however, on this lazy day I managed to fall asleep fully clothed in the middle of the bed. Stretched out like a swastika. What I was not aware of, at the time, was that I had fallen asleep to a never ending, relentless, P90X commercial. Two hours of a P90X announcer with his smooth subliminal stimuli communicating under my threshold of conscious perception. Without being aware, I became a P90X zombie.

Now, if you don’t watch the “higher channels” of US cable programming, or have not been trapped next to a P90X zombie at a party, P90X is a workout program they sell on the idiot box. This workout program bombards you with images of normal people that look just like you using the system and within 90 days end up with washboard abs.

“Must have washboard abs” I started to chant in my sleep. The zero percent body fat “Jim Jones” leader of this cult is Tony Horton. His smooth talk and ease of explaining the process had me awake and reaching for my credit card to hold up to the screen. “Here! Take my money! All of it, just give me those abs, I must be beautiful!” I slammed my Visa against the TV screen, “Dear God, affirm me and firm me.”

I stopped. Startled awake, I found conscious standing with my face pressed against the Television. Credit cards scattered around me. Tony Horton still bouncing around on the screen explaining how his six pack is actually very easy to get. I then did what I always do in these situations. I texted Patrick of Pacspad.blogspot.com and started to convince him to do the program with me.

“Come on! I’ll do it on my side of the country, you can do it on your side of the country and it’ll be just like we’re doing it together.” Before I knew it, I was back on my bed texting away to Patrick on how groovy we were going to look in our new six packs. How we were going to walk around on some gay beach and have all the boys stare at us. Before I knew it, the infomercial that was going to change my life was done. The Forever Lazy infomercial started and Patrick and I moved on in our conversation as well.

Patrick and Steve on the beach this summer.  



Gymuary

We are past the mid-point of Gymuary. The newness of going to the gym has worn off and this week begins the tipping-point where it’s easy to teeter on dedication. The gym shoes may be forgotten in the trunk/boot of the car and instead of coming to the gym, something “more important” maybe thought up as an excuse to not put these new cross trainers on and hit the gym’s rubberized floor.

For the last three weeks the gym has be filled to the breaking point with new members. Whole new waves of preferred members start to stagger in right after January first. This group made New Year’s resolutions to dedicated their time to the gym and pump some iron. This is always done in the effort to start anew on a workout routine and finally get their bodies in shape. The gym calls these folks “preferred members” because they pay the joining fees, then after thirty days never come back to use the facilities. No surprise, the gym prefers it this way.

For three weeks dedication ran high. When a gentleman unracked one side of a bar throwing the bar and its remaining contents onto my foot, I commended his dedication. When pausing between sets on the Preacher Curl Bench and a guy stepped in front of me to toss an empty bar onto the very bench I was using, I applauded his commitment to showing up and swearing his allegiance to the gym. Everyone makes mistakes when starting on a new path, never let it sidetrack resolve.

This will be the week to test the metal. With loyalty wavering, will the gym shoes be left in the trunk of the car? Will Gymuary end and February find these devotees have moved to Preferred Membership, or will they join us? The few, the proud, the Dudes at the gym. I for one, implore you to pull the shoes out of the trunk, strap them on and hit the weights. Before you know it, the excuses will fade and your half-hearted New Year’s resolution will simply be a way of life.

Marching on the Appian Way

When I lived in Dallas, I rented a house on Appian Way. It wasn’t the Appian Way, just a close reproduction, sans the whimsy.  It was a tiny stone house that backed up to a creek. It was amazingly quiet, as it was just me and my roommate.

I wasn’t ever formally introduced to my roommate, he was a shifty character. Mostly he would stand at the end of the hall, late at night. Tall, dark and translucent. Me being me, I decided that my black, shadowy friend, although he wouldn’t chip in a dime for rent, needed entertaining.

Sometimes I’d put on an impromptu play involving current events of the day. In some sort of way to translate the outside world to a shut-in, in song and dance. Sometimes I’d re-enact famous stage shows, just a little one man show for the purpose of humoring the un-quiet dead.

I handle stress in strange ways.

Mostly because I was such a bad singer, the ghost roommate would disappear and try to ignore me for another week. One night I was on stage, pulling out the stops in a marching band montage. I was hot that night, and I went for the big finale, I started into a marching kick routine to Don't Rain on My Parade not realizing that the dogs were also running from my general area. They were fine with the ghost, just terrified of me. This is when I slipped and fell onto the hardwood, slamming my right shoulder. As my shoulder hit I thought I saw stars, instead it was every light in the house flashing on all at once. I distinctly heard laughter coming from down the hall. Everyone is a critic.

The muscle in my right shoulder has never been the same, and as I tweaked it again yesterday at the gym, I thought back to my original injury. Oh, yeah. marching with spirits on the Appian Way.

CHILLAX, IT’S FRIDAY

I think I’m mellowing with age. Situations that would drive me over the edge not that long ago now barely make a blip on the radar.

One of the good things about living in a small fictional town is that the gas station on main street doesn’t feel the need to climb up to the sign out by the street and change their gas prices. This means that I can fill up my sleek sports sedan for around 25 to 30 cents cheaper than anywhere else. This is made cheaper if you also buy a car wash. Me? Wash my car? Well, okay. Although the last three times I’ve filled up the car wash was broken.

Yesterday I went to the gym and then stopped by a friend’s house to watch an Ina Garten TV marathon. On the way back to the ranch I stopped for petrol and car wash. Or should I say, petrol and to sit in my car madly punching a code into a sneering and complacent kiosk. This afforded me the opportunity to meet Brian. Well, his name tag said “Brain” but, I’m sure he meant Brian. The brain then set about explaining that car washes are difficult to operate and maybe I wasn’t up to the task.

So here we find our protagonist. A gas station attendant with a tattoo on his forearm reading “Born Fwee” [SP] is letting me know my place in the world. Suddenly I was overwhelmed that I was underwhelmed. The ego was happily in tune, the testosteronieness was chillaxin. I left the store knowing that a possible conflict instead produced a Diet Coke and a MoonPie.

Turns out that yes, I had been entering the code wrong.

 

GYM TALK

“Get a spot?”

I heard this request yesterday at the gym. As the overbuilt muscle was directing the request towards me I stepped up to the incline bench. I’ve been in this gym everyday at the same time with this same guy. Yet I had no idea who he was, due to my lack of social skills and philosophy of get in, get done, get out. He struck up a conversation whilst pressing ungodly amounts of iron down to his chest. Together a couple more reps were pressed out then with the bar back in its holder then overbuilt muscle struck up a conversation.

After a couple of minutes of discussing the gym and other routine topics he stated that he had me figured out, either I was a get in, get it done, get out guy or a raging asshole. I retorted that I was both and had him figured out as a Sociology Major at DU, but apologized if I’ve been ignoring him.

I always ignore everyone at the gym, going back to high school weight lifting class. This is primarily because I don’t want to be perceived as “that gay guy that leers at dudes”. I acknowledge this is because I stick to my own business and it’s a gym, not a bar. But am I really still forcing upon myself self perceived homophobia? Am I still caught in the loathing of being perceived as an effeminate fairy? When I was young it was self-preservation. One wrong look and I could get pounded. Now I out weight most guys.

I guess at this point I could be a little friendlier. I can also release the survival skills I built in high school.

The Nice To See Stevie B. blog is moving. Please check out www.NTSSB.com and don't forget to update your favorites tab.

GYM BAG

A Zen Master once said “The Atlantis gym bag is the new gay pride flag.”

Deep in its meaning, true in its declaration.

I carried my Atlantis Cruises gym bag like a true disciple for years. Recently while I stood naked in the locker-room it self-destructed in front of me. Just fell to the earth and faded into dust. Kind of like Christine Aguilera. With less flames.

I had a moment of naked silence for my gay cruise memento. Then as I stood over the ashes of my dearly departed and rubbing the hairs on my stomach, I realized the next chapter in my life. I quickly dug like a vulture through the dead bag and pulled out my phone. “I’m calling Dalton!” I declared knowing he is the only man to care about my naked moment.

“Hi. The zipper just ripped out of my gym bag, now I have a reason to buy a new Puma backpack.” Realizing how A) shallow B) gay it sounded as I said it. “Uh…. Great…. Good for you?” Dalton is the only man I know that will give me mock praise and concern when I want it. That’s why I love him, he patronizes me. Tiny moments in your life sometimes need to be shared with someone that unconditionally loves you.

“Tell you what. I haven’t given you a birthday present yet. What If I make that your present?” Dalton said in that tone that always makes me feel all warm and safe.

An end to an era. Out with the old, free bag with cruise purchase with it's never ending smell of Gun Oil and in with a rocking Puma backpack. 

GYM UPDATE

The Big Gay Gym has been closed for renovations for the last month. The 24hour frequented by the Homo class was woefully under appointed and kind of nasty. The space for the free weights was always overcrowded and the locker room…. A girl could lose her dignity.

Even me, the gay ghetto gay stopped going because I may like to cruise your ass, but I sure don’t want to wait for it to get off the flat bench. I moved over to the 24hour near the college to work out with the DU college dudes. The dudes are quiet, put the plates back where they belong and never sit and chat on the benches. I’ve never had to wait for anything. Until the renovation started on the BGG.

A couple of weeks past, I sauntered into the dudes gym on chest day and found the gentleman I loving referred to as Forest Gump relaxing on a bench, the only thing he was missing was a box of chocolates. “How the hell did he find this gym?” I asked myself. Well, that’s when I discovered that the BGG was under renovations and everyone that frequented the BGG was now heading to my quiet location.

Drat. Weeks of three times the normal people at the gym. Making the decline crunch bench smell like Fahrenheit. Well, this tyranny of fabulousness ends tomorrow. The Mo gym reopens, with its new updated look. All the bench warmers and elliptical sluts can just go back to their fancy gym…… Yeah. I’ll go check it out. What? There’s amazing cruising in the locker room.