When I go to the gime, I don’t talk to anyone. And no one talks to me. It seems as though there is an implicit understanding that someone who cannot be bothered to comb her hair or wear matching socks is also not very friendly. And this is true.
On the other hand, there are gym regulars that I count on seeing. (They act as a human sundial to the rays I generate from the fiery hate for mankind that burns within me.) There’s the stinky pants guy, the scary character actor guy*, the woman who spends all day wandering naked around the locker room, and the person whom I affectionately think of as the Bionic Lesbian.
The Bionic Lesbian is a gender nonconforming gym rat who’s always there when I’m there–so I have to assume that she’s** there every day, given how irregular my “workout routine”*** is. She is profusely tattooed and impressively sinewy. I’ve seen her do pull-ups for 5 minutes straight and bench-press like 200 lbs. I would seriously love to know what she does for a living. I dunno…for all I know she’s an accountant. But I like to imagine that she fights crime or is working on a cure for cancer because she’s so awesome.
Or maybe she’s a total asshole like all the other weightlifter types at the gym. (I ascribe either beatific and magical qualities or loathsome and terrible qualities to complete strangers. This leads to inevitable disappointment.)
So today, the BL was not around. And I am glad. Because today in the locker room I realized that I was wearing the Underwear of Last Resort…my Rolling Stones Underoos. I bought them at the Beall’s Outlet when I was visiting my mom one time. (The Beall’s Outlet is a Florida chain that sells amazing crap that no one wanted five years ago. I got a Wacoal bra there for $12 once.) They seemed cool at the time, but now they’re just…humiliating (and comfortable). And I can’t have my gym hero seeing me like that.
Unless, of course, she saw the Underoos and decided that I was a Rock & Roll Superhero and then asked me to be her sidekick. That would be awesome.
