This past evening, another massive marble milestone was marked in the tragicomedy that is my life. I took a gigantic leap and did something that would have been completely unimaginable to me just five short years ago...I made the commitment to join a health club.
You see, I don't like exercising. I prefer the more recreational forms of self-induced suffering that don't involve having to stare at the bevy of sweaty backsides on the machines in front of me. I'd rather strap on the in-line skates and hit the trails for an hour or so. It gives me a good workout, gets me outside and, for the most part, gets me away from people...which is something that health clubs have in spades.
Unfortunately, 'round about this time of year in Minnesota the trails have become utterly useless for anything other than cross country skiing and the only thing that could get me to strap a pair of skis on my feet again would be if I came across an unusually nimble St. Bernard with a cask full of Redbreast around his neck. That is, of course, assuming I couldn't skewer the little bastard with a ski pole first.
Combine these seasonal limitations with the fact that on the printed report I just got back from my last physical the doctor underlined the word "exercise" about a dozen times and I knew something had to give. Come to think of it, he also told me to stop smoking and to cut down on the booze. I just love that man's sense of humor.
Anyway, that's why I found myself accompanying the lovely Atomizerette on one of her thrice weekly jaunts to "The Club" last night and, I have to say, it wasn't an entirely distasteful experience.
What was entirely distasteful was the experience I had in the men's locker room. I mean, really, would it kill you guys to put on a freakin' towel before you prance your way from the shower to the lockers? I expect a certain amount of nakedness in an area where men are showering and dressing but let's show a bit of decorum here. It's a locker room, not a Playgirl shoot. Drop the towel, pull up the shorts and move on.
It's one thing to be comfortable with your own body. It's an entirely different thing to be wagging all the bits of your body around me when I'm trying to dig a pack of Camels and my hip flask out of the duffel bag.
Next time...I think I'll bring a ski pole with me.