I have been trying to get to the gym in the morning. I just feel better about everything all day, and don’t have to waste time making up excuses for not going after work. But – it does mean waking up at 5:30 or 6. Which is already hard, because it’s still cold and dark here in lovely NYC. That, and I don’t sleep correctly. My gym is right by my home base subway stop, so the plan is wake up, go there before I realize I’m awake, and shower there. I pack a bag the night before with whatever I am going to wear to work, socks, undies, a towel, accessories, flip flops and shower stuff. Enough back story. Trauma time.
I get to the gym, go to the locker and arrange my stuff for maximum efficiency. (DORK!) Then I realize – I forgot my flip-flops and shower pouffy thing at home. Well, this throws me into a tizzy. What am I going to do without my flip-flops?! How am I going to shower? Frank has this gross foot thing that he thinks he got from the showers at this gym. I can’t go home to get them, or shower at home after working out because I won’t have enough time to get to work on time, and I seriously consider just going home and not working out at all. I decide against this. Believe me, I really want to pack it all in. Yes, not having flip-flops is a valid excuse to not work out for me. I forge on.
I spend the entire time on the stupid elliptical coming up with a plan. And I am so freaked out by this flip-flop situation, that I cut my work-out short by 5 minutes, to leave myself time to enact Plan Shower Foot. This is where the crazy begins. Yes, in my head – the first part of this story is perfectly normal, and only now does it show signs of insanity.
My plan is this: Grab an extra complimentary gym towel. Strip naked (with my hot pink towel strategically placed over naked bits, of course) EXCEPT my current, funky socks. Walk to shower with socks, lay down the towel I have been working out with on the floor to stand on. Shower, and then use the other towel to scoop up the wet towel, and throw it in the laundry.
My plan was perfect. Except for her. Oh, you know her. She stands at the mirror in the locker room for like, 40 minutes. Futzing with her goddamn bangs and a curling iron to an effect and perfection that only she can see. And she’s driving me batty, because she’s wearing a bra, and a towel around her bottom. Why not underwear? Oh, and she is standing on a towel on the floor NEXT to her flip-flops. What is she doing for so goddamn long? And when did this become her personal boudoir? Why aren’t her flip-flops on her feet? And what does this have to do with me? Oh. Yes. She is going to judge me for my walk to the shower in socks. I know this, because anyone who spends this much time trying to cover some unseen, out of control hair is definitely judging insane-o me. Why I care why she judges me is another mystery.
I gather all my strength (mental, because physically? I barely worked out – I was that preoccupied) and walk to the shower. So far, so good. All is going well. The pouf? A sad loss, but I can work around this – no tragedy here. My feet are clean and safe. Man, I am rocking this. What was I even worried about? I am a tactical genius. I finish, rinse off.
And then I find the fatal flaw. I have no foot protection to get me from the shower, to my locker.
I ended up skipping. Like a deranged, overweight fairy.
I hate the gym.