Somewhere between 1980 and now I decided to become fat. I blame it mostly on my discovery of the cookie in the winter of 1983. Recently my father has given me recipes for bacon infused bourbon and meatballs that include a miraculous ingredient called "bacon paste" so something must be done to fight the massive caloric intake in my future. I would like to, at the very least, wait until my 40's for my first heart attack. This is why I go to the gym.
Going to the gym is a pretty hellish experience, although this is for reasons other than what I had anticipated. I assumed that the fact that I haven't moved quickly since 8th grade would make the act of exercising abhorrent. I have been delighted to learn that this is not the case. As long as I have angry music piercing my ear drums I push through my lack of fitness and I feel pretty tremendous afterwards. There is a certain misery to a workout and I sweat like a stuck pig but it's not intolerable. Unfortunately the gym is not a solitary experience, in fact, it is usually packed with people.
Often in my life I think of the great words of Jean-Paul Sartre, "L'enfer c'est les autres." If you chose to take a useful foreign language instead of French that means "Hell is other people." I feel that if ol Jean-Paul had to go down to the local Bally's to get his exercise in that he would have altered that thought to "L'enfer est testicules d'autres personnes." I'm confident that I don't need to translate that for you.
I understand that the locker room is a place where the rules of polite society are cast aside. Any time that people are changing clothes and taking showers there is an expected and acceptable amount of nudity. I'm not a prude by any means, hell, I like a good bit of nudity as much as the next fella. While I have been described as "an Adonis" and "a physical specimen" I try to save my nudity for a few special occasions; with my lady, at the doctor, and after a six pack of Four Loko. Other than in those few instances I try to take my clothes on and off in a swift process. Yet for some damn reason people parade about the locker room swinging their wedding tackle from side to side for all to see. Not only are these men putting themselves on display it's that it is impossible to avoid. I have had to stop taking my shoes off at all lest I be forced to sit on the bench to tie them, where inevitably I always come eye to eye with a septuagenarian's sagging balls.
I have come up with a theory pertaining to this. It seems that the older the gentleman the more prolonged the nudity. One would be quick to assume that this is because old people do things more slowly. Not so fast my friend, that is not why they are naked longer. When they actually decide to cover themselves they move at a normal pace to do so, so that's not the explanation. Instead it seems as if they have complete disdain at the idea of having to put their clothes back on. They air dry themselves, have conversations and wander about the locker room aimlessly naked as the day they were born. I imagine that after 70+ years of having to wear clothes every day one might get sick of doing it and that's what I assume is the case here. They have decided to relish this brief nude respite for as long as possible before they return to the monotony of being dressed. I guess it's kind of sweet when you think about it. . .
NO, IT'S NOT SWEET. IT'S GROSS. I don't want to have to stare at your wrinkled, old ass while I'm getting dressed. I'm not forcing you to take a prolonged gander at my ample posterior, you can at least do me the common decency of returning the favor. I'm sure that your old friend can recap the Matlock you missed with his junk covered by a towel instead of wagging in my face. For the love of God just get dressed and get the hell out of the locker room as quickly as possible, please. Although I guess I should thank the naked old men for helping me lose weight in an unexpected way, once I leave the gym I don't have an appetite for hours.
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