Everybody dance now

May 27, 2005 - 12:32 a.m.

I joined a gym and it’s the best goddamn decision I’ve made in a long time. I’ve mentioned going to the gym here several times, but I have never been a member in my life – I’d just find ways to scam into the places, through friends or trial memberships.

I joined an all-women’s gym, and it’s $15 a month/ $400 for two years. That’s super cheap, right? It’s one block down from my job and I go there every day for my lunch break. I eat at my desk one hour beforehand, to get some fuel.

My first day there I walked in and they were playing classical music over the loud speakers. I wanted to slit my throat. Who the fuck can RUN to this? WHY WHY WHY do they play lullabies in a gym? I was baffled. Secondly, there are no televisions and I soon found myself running in place to Handel and staring at my own stupid self in the mirror. God, do NOT ever make me stare into a mirror. I prefer to view myself in a dimly lit room, six feet away from the mirror, squinting and glancing briefly out of the corner of my eye to get the “gist”. The gist is anything I want it to be, including being thin, with nice skin and no gray hair.

The next day I went in to work out and they were playing Sarah McLachlan’s "Arms/Wings/Love of an Angel". You know, the Angel song. *Vomit*. That song is no less than 11 minutes long and I had to slap my own face to prevent myself from falling into a coma. What is WRONG with bitches [women]? Why do they do stupid shit like this? Like somebody got the idea: “Hey – let’s start an all-women’s gym! Just for us!” and then: “Hey – let’s all dyke out and lie on the floor and pretend to do yoga to find our hairy inner dyke selves! Let’s listen to angel songs and mourn our lonely existence and then wonder why we’re still fat when we ‘work out’ like, all the time!”

Twats.

I had no choice but to buy some sort of portable music container in order to block out the Female Singer/Songwriter Self-Actualization Festival that had descended upon My Gym that I am now contractually obligated to pay into for two years.

My personal philosophy: If you can’t beat ‘em, Ignore ‘em.

I need a human version of horse blinders, or maybe a pair of Stevie Wonder glasses to go along with my headphones so I can be a blind deaf-mute and run my ass to skinny without taking in all that nonsense that surrounds me. All of that eye-rolling distracts me from raising my heart rate.

So I headed to Best Buy post-haste to buy an MP3 player and was chagrined to discover that the best option for me was the i-Pod. Hell, it was painful and embarrassing to even ask the sales girl to unlock the glass case for me because i-Pod = The Official Crown of Douchemaster of the Century. Every asshole in America has the trademarked white headphones streaming down the sides of their face like it is a permanent fixture to their pinhead and you never have any idea if they can hear you or if they’re busy listening to the “Vertigo” i-Pod commercial.

The i-Pod is where the world of yuppies and hipsters collide, a place I care not to visit. Annoying people, annoying ad campaign, and super annoying team mascot. The whole U-Two Bone-O (I must misspell him cuz I heard he likes to Google himself to see who’s talking shit) ad campaign cinched it for me, as Bone-O and all of that shit that comes out of his mouth makes my genitals shrivel up like autumn leaves and blow away in the wind.

Speaking of Bone-O, I’m totally serious that he was in my office all day recently, for reasons that were never quite explained to me – something about him being friends with our CEO. All I know is that everyone stood in line outside of his conference room, waiting to suck him off and I was like Starfuckers! He doesn’t want to meet your pasty Midwestern ass!

I can’t give any more details than that or I will surely be found out and promptly fired. But I will tell you this, and listen carefully, because I wish to turn the world against him and ruin his career.

1) Shitty Hair. Without out all of that Vitalis in his hair, it was a frizzy afro mess.
2) Those fucking sunglasses. INDOORS, in an office building, what a prick! With reflective mirrored lenses, I hate him! I wanted to drop-kick that faggot in the forehead and bust those Raybans off his cranium once and for all.
3) Totally fucked clothing. What the hell? Bill Cosby sweater, 4 sizes too big?
4) MIDGET. I mean it, MIDGET. I am 5’ 4” and was wearing 2” heels that day and that little man came up to my eyeballs. Skinny-ass tiny man looking old as hell.
5) Two words: Potato Nigger.

I ran into a supermodel in the restroom who I assume is his wife/girlfriend/lady of the night. I don’t know why the hell else there would be a model in our bathroom, but then again, why wasn’t she out spending his money on the Magnificent Mile? Her and I washed hands next to one another and I looked at her in my peripheral and I was like Holy Fuck that bitch is Tall. She looked at me with disdain. She looked miserable and was aging poorly. I figure anyone who has to listen to his mouth run all day probably ages 3 years for every 1 that the rest of us do.

There were other famous people at that meeting that day including HELLO, THE GUY WHO INVENTED WINDOWS? MICROSOFT?? I was far more fascinated with him, because duh, he has so much money that he couldn’t possible spend it in his lifetime and this boggles me and gets me thinking for minutes at a time. I kept my eyes peeled for him but never saw him. Nobody else cared that he was there because they were too busy spelunking Bone-O’s colon.

Of course, I was not too proud to eat Bone-O’s leftovers. They had brought in enough food to feed an entire Polish wedding and after he left, the secretaries brought it all in to our kitchen and I was first in line with a plate, filling up on Chinese, Italian, and every kind of food you can imagine.

Last Sunday there was a huge article in the Chicago Tribune where Bone-O bitched out the staff music critic because the critic had written a bad review of U-two’s recent concert. Bone-O demanded an interview and wanted a write-up of his rebuttal, which he was, of course, granted. I skimmed through the article and chuckled when I read Bone-O saying something about, “You people, who sit in your office buildings all day,” and I had to wonder if it wasn’t my office that inspired him to make that snide comment.

ANYWAY, that’s the end of that raging tangent. Back to my stupid goddamn gym.

So I bought this i-Pod Shuffle because it is, without a doubt, small enough to fit inside my vagina. Not that I store it there - though a few weeks of Kegel exercises could probably give me a pretty good handle on the volume and skip buttons. It is small as a super-absorbent tampon, but rectangular and weighs not more than a feather. This is perfect for me and running, and it was cheaper than the non-Mac brands, so hell. I can’t fight logic. I-pod it is, and I figured when I get it home, I will spray paint it black because white sux. Now I can secretly listen to Cinderella’s “Nobody’s Fool” while I lift weights and no one can make fun of me for it. Rock. The Fuck. On.

One other thing that receives a stern look and frowny face from me is a sign posted all over the gym that reads:

“Members:
Please be advised that there is ABOSLUTELY NO NUDITY ALLOWED at any time in the locker room. Please use the immediate shower area for dressing.”

Uh.
I don’t get.

Where else can women freely run around nude in a benign, comfortable environment, if not in a locker room?

In every circle I’ve been in, including Christian schools and Amish churches, single sex nudity was always AOK in the locker rooms.

And now, as an adult in an ALL FEMALE gym, us ladies can’t even be comfortable changing in front of one another? How the fuck did this happen? Does this have something to do with the Bush administration?

This is the last straw in a world that has finally gone screwloose fukkin batty and I say fuggit, and walk around topless every day. Hell if I’m going to go stand in a mildewed shower stall to change out of my jogging bra. And not a single woman has been fazed so far, because NEWSFLASH we’ve seen hundreds of naked women in our lives and could not give a shit if there’s a pair of sand-dollar-sized areolas standing next to us. Except for maybe the author of the hot pink laminated signs.

I joined a gym for several reasons, one of them being that it makes me feel really good to get off my ass, but more importantly, this outfit:

I learned how to use the radio to call in the harbor patrol and the Coast Guard. They’ll deliver bags of ice right out to your boat so you can keep your beer cold. The harbor guys, not the Coast Guard.

“Monroe Tender this is Shawna Mooney over?”

“Monroe Tender copy Shawna Mooney.”

“We need a pick up at South Romeo 22 two people over?”

“Copy that Shawna Mooney, we’re on our way.”

Fucking awesome.

My Captain is going to shit himself a foot taller when he sees those slutty nautical booty shorts.

I can’t wait to fuck him six ways til Tuesday on the sexy sloop Shawna Mooney.

PS – I sent out 40 postcards from Egypt, and now 27 days later, I have not heard of a single person receiving one. Must be all those beaver shot Polaroids I taped onto them. Fucking Taliban!

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