A Simple Gym Wish

Why is it that the older and fatter a man is, the more likely they are to walk around the gym locker room without a towel around their waist?

It’s a strange correlation that, unfortunately, has been repeatedly proven true.

Can someone explain this phenomenon to me? Does this inhibition occur naturally as one ages? Forty years from now, am I going to stand in public, think to myself, “To hell with that” and just walk around pantless?

I would really like for someone to explain this to me….

Actually, I take that back. I don’t want to know. I just want it to stop.

Please make it stop.

Deer, Oh Dear

Its hard when you spot a deer to not immediately go to the image of Bambi’s mother and the emotional trauma that follows.

So it was this past weekend when a doe wandered into the field behind the family home and plopped down below a tree, that the thought occurred to me how much that deer looked liked Bambi. (Actually, all deer kind of look like Bambi.)

This doe was sitting beneath a half-fallen tree, content as can be. Shortly after laying down, a ginormous 8-point buck showed up that looked like an elephant with horns.

As an aside, years ago I was making a snowman at night. After rolling the base of my creation, I spotted a deer closing in from the side of the house, lurking in the shadows. This deer had horns and – I believed at the time and still do – that the deer was in attack formation, readying to come after me like the vicious beast it appeared to be.

Needless to say, I yelped and ran inside for cover.

However, the rest of the family laughed at me for years as no one ever spotted this elusive deer with horns…until this past Saturday. It may have taken eight years, but I finally feel vindicated!

Now back to our originally scheduled program…

This buck looked like it was checking on the doe and even sat on the ground next to it. It was…adorable. The buck eventually left, but the doe remained, sitting in the same spot. Dad believed it was resting; Mom thought it was hurt.

Either way, we let the deer be.

Throughout the day, the deer remained sitting. But soon, a scary neighborhood cat walked across the field. The deer tried to get up and run away from the pet cat – it was quite the cowardly deer – but immediately collapsed.

Clearly, it was hurt.

After trying to get a hold of the Humane Society, the policy department, Ghostbusters, Deer Removal Ltd. and the Pennsylvania Gaming Commission, we turned to the next best source – a known hunter.

He mentioned the possibility of the deer being pregnant, but admitted that it was a little late in the season for that. Apparently, deer procreation is on a very tight schedule. Since deer are most active at night, the hunter suggested waiting to see if it was still there in the morning.

The next day, the deer was there.

And the PA Gaming Commission was on their way with their “deer misery reliever” tool, which also doubles as a rifle when needed. When he arrived, I was out and about so the next section is all hearsay -

The Gaming Commission Dude spotted the deer lying motionless on the ground. It didn’t look good.

He walked across the field, getting closer and closer to the deer. When a mere five feet away, the once presumed dead deer jumped up and bolted away into the woods lining the field. All the Gaming Commission Dude could do was shrug his shoulders.

My Father joined up with the guy. The deer was still only twenty yards away when it lifted its tail and dropped a two-sie, making its feelings known on having been disturbed from its resting place.

The Gaming Commission Dude, God bless him, went up and inspected the deer dung for blood. It was a clean dump which, apparently, means the deer had no internal bleeding. Hooray for the deer.

We then learned many wonderful facts about deer and their incredible resiliency. As long as it doesn’t get gangrene and the winter isn’t particularly tough, the deer would probably survive.

When told about the buck keeping tabs on the doe – who my Mother believes was the doe’s mate – the Gaming Commission Dude had a different take on it. His theory was this buck spotted a single female and was merely trying to put the moves on the doe. While Mom holds steady in their thoughts of undying deer love romanticism, the rest of us subscribe to the “chasing skirts” theory as the buck’s main motivation for being there.

It was at this point that I returned from my errands and was told the above story. Personally, I call B.S. and doubt any of it happened. My theory is that this was a classic, “Well Jimmy, your goldfish is fine; its just in a big fish bowl up in the sky with all of its fishy friends” moment.

I’m not nearly as naïve as Jimmy so I still maintain they just put the deer out of its misery and hauled the carcass away. In the meantime, they concocted the above “miracle leap” to help soften the news of its death to Mom. However, despite my convictions, Dad did not budge on the story of the deer that looked mortally wounded before looking dead then becoming full of life and vitality as it magically lept on all fours to escape the PA Gaming Commission Dude.

Finally, we were part of a deer story without the tragedy and uncontrollable sobbing that comes with watching Bambi. Assuming the doe truly walked away on its own, I can honestly say I was involved in a moment where Mother Nature put aside her cruelty and showed that she can be compassionate to God’s creatures.

Or, it seemed that way until Mom got a phone call Monday evening saying they found the deer in a neighbor’s backyard and had to put it down since it was acting lethargic and looked to be in bad shape.

Oh well.

C’est la vie.

I Smell a Rat

When I recently joined a gym, I was flooded with many welcomes as I toured the facility. During my walk through, my tour guide explained the various rules and regulations, many of which you would find at any other gym – wipe the equipment down when you’re done, wear sandals in the shower, and so on.

A couple days after joining, I soon found myself in situations that my tour guide neglected to go over.

Behind a row of cardio-equipment are some weightlifting machines. The ones I use focus on the leg muscles. I adjusted the seat, sat down, set the weight, and began pushing and lifting my legs in various directions. It was a strenuous workout that left my legs tired. As an unexpected side effect, my neck muscles got a rigorous workout as well.

You see, while sitting at the leg exercising machines, my line of sight happened to be even with the rear ends of all those increasing their heart rate on the cardio machine.

My eyes, their butts, all on an even playing field.

Whoever designed the facility neglected to consider the “pupil-to-bottoms” conundrum because, otherwise, they would have staggered the weightlifting and cardio machines. There I was, working on my quads while the focal point of my field of vision was the derriere of a woman using the stair-master in front of me.

I tried not to stare forward for too long as I was resting between reps. The last thing I wanted was to develop a reputation as a perv, even if it was an innocent mistake. I also didn’t want to keep moving my head around, left to right, up and down, fearing that the motion would bring unwanted attention my way.

As I rolled my neck, trying to vary the objects in my line of sight, I prayed that no one would come up and ask what’s wrong with my neck. Or, more awkwardly, ask me what was wrong with this woman’s bum that I kept trying to avoid looking at.

“Well there is nothing wrong with her bum and my neck is just fine, thank you very much.”

I was in an uncompromisable position for which there were no signs hanging on the wall, explaining what I should do. That wasn’t the only directionless situation I found myself in. There are other fears that I didn’t see disclosed on any of the brochures or posted on any of the warning signs scattered throughout the facility.

My greatest fear is that one day, I will accidentally – yes, accidentally – walk into the woman’s locker room.

There are simple signs hanging from the ceiling with one reading “Men’s Locker Room” and the other “Women’s Locker Room.” While there are arrows pointing to their respective entrances, this is all dependent on one to look up. Since my neck is usually sore from trying to avoid perceived leering, looking up is not always viable.

With a public restroom, I at least have the luxury of doors decorated with a rectangular bottom figure, indicating I’m about to walk into the men’s room. If there’s a figure with a triangular bottom representing a skirt, I know right away that I need the next door down.

At the gym, there is no door.

A small walkway, a quick left turn then a quick right and you’re in the locker room. It very much follows the layout of a highway rest stop. Unlike the highway rest stop though, there’s no urinals to greet me. There is a subtle relief when you first spot those porcelain indicators because its at that moment that you officially know you are in the right place (assuming you’re rocking an XY chromosome pair).

In the locker room, you are greeted merely by lockers. Simple, brown lockers. Having never seen the women’s locker room, I can only assume they look nearly identical. Although, it is possible the women might have pink lockers with bedazzled handles with perfume scented hinges and mirrors on the doors to help them apply their makeup.

Of course, this is all just conjecture at this point.

Before making the treacherous trek to the locker room where an embarrassing game of Russian roulette takes place as I decide which walkway to go through, I stopped by the gymnasium to shoot some hoops.

As I walked in, the court was crowded with guys stretching along the walls, lacing up their sneakers, and some shooting jumpers from the same spot on the floor. I crossed the court and noticed there was only one basketball remaining on the rack. I picked it up and noticed how small it seemed.

Was it deflated?

No, it had a good bounce to it.

Have my hands unexpectedly grown from my vigorous workouts?

Seems unlikely.

It may have been out-of-order, but there was no sign to say so.

This left only one other option – the object I was holding in my hands was the ladies’ ball.

I looked around, hoping no one would notice as I took the ladies ball. I debated in my mind for several minutes whether I should take it or leave it. There was no sign to guide me to the correct decision. If I was in a bathroom and the only available stall was the handicap one, I would probably use it – actually, I know I would use it, especially in an emergency situation. If there was a handicap person in the restroom, I would by all means let him take it.

Looking around, there were no women in the gym.

So I took the ball.

Part of my logic concluded that this could not be the only ladies’ ball in the gym; that would mean there was another dude shootin’ hoops with the chick ball. As I dribbled towards a hoop, I would occasionally pause and squeeze the ball with both hands so others could witness my frustration with being forced to use such a tiny ball. I felt more masculine, but still a little concerned by the dainty rock I was rockin’.

In between jump shots, I thought about what would happen If a woman walked into the gym. Was I obligated to give up the lady ball to her? Would that be gym protocol or just the gentlemanly thing to do?

Unfortunately, there was no sign hanging from the ceiling to point me in the right direction.

During my time there, no women walked into the gym. But soon, a group of guys started to gather around the far hoop. A voice hollered, “Do you want in?”

“Sure,” I replied, not really sure what I just agreed to. As I walked towards the group, I subtly bounced the lady’s ball towards the rack, thus discarding of the evidence. When I reached the crowd, I was directed to shoot the ball, which I missed.

Another guy shot and missed as well.

No one gave any indication what I was supposed to do next. Someone eventually bounced a ball in my direction and I took it upon myself to try another shot.

Only this time, I totally swished it!

I was told that my prize for making the shot was a spot on Team 2; I really didn’t know anything about Team 2; we haven’t really met. I was also somewhat unfamiliar with Team 1. And I have no idea if there was a Team 3 or not; this was all new to me and I was clearly undergoing a learning process.

As the players started to line up, I quickly realized we were about to play a 5-on-5 game of basketball. Okay, lets disclose this right now – I am not in the best of shape. I wasn’t in any shape at all, really. I just got done lifting weights as well as running on the elliptical bike and even walked a few laps.

Needless to say, my legs were a little tired.

I felt like I was D.J from that one Full House episode where she transformed into a gym rat and over-worked herself at the gym so she could fit in her bathing suit for an upcoming friend’s party. Unlike D.J., I didn’t have Kimmy Gibler or the suave and folliclely-tastic Uncle Jesse to save me from the pain and physical exhaustion that was surely about to come my way.

And I didn’t need a sign to tell me that.

I put my reservations aside and assumed that I could at least muster enough energy for a half court game of basketball. Unfortunately, we were going to play a full court game of basketball.

It took two possessions for my legs to give in.

After three possessions, it hurt to breathe.

By the time the fifth possession game arrived, I was jumping towards the rim in a reckless fashion, praying that I would land on top of another player’s shoes and roll my ankle, thus providing me a graceful exit from the game so that I may live to see another day.

The gym goes month-to-month so I’m not bound to any contract; whenever I want out, I give 30 days notice and I’m clean free. However, as part of my agreement, they make no mention as to how one exits a basketball game. There were no TV timeouts to save me or even substitutions to relieve me.

I thought about giving the guys a 30 second notice before walking out, but I didn’t have the wind to speak.

As my team ran back on defense, I found the slowest opponent to guard. These guys were running at full speed, making sharp cuts, and jumping with an unbridled enthusiasm for the rebound. While they were setting picks and calling out plays, yelling, “Iso! Iso!” I had my hands on my knees, screaming “Uncle! Uncle!” hoping the pain would stop, but the words left my mouth in a mere whimper.

I had to find a way out. There was an element of pride involved. I couldn’t just abandon a game right in the middle. Then again, I could barely breathe. I felt I had no other choice then to place my hand right below my belly button and say, “Oh, menopause.”

I imagine the other guys would be slightly confused, but they also wouldn’t argue with me. I may even be able to solicit a sympathetic nod.

As baskets were made, I kept hoping that each one was a game winner. While running down the court, I was pulling additional hamstrings I didn’t even knew I had.

Eventually, someone made the game winning shot – was it my team? I don’t remember. As the other players headed for the water fountain, I bolted to the locker room to gather my things.

My shirt was marinated in sweat and I could feel my body encased in an impermeable shell of BO. With my bag draped over my shoulder, I slowly limped away like a battered old rat towards that gorgeous, beautiful glowing red exit sign.

Thinking of the Impossible

I thought about my childhood before getting bored with the familiarity of it all. Instead, I moved in the opposite direction and started to ponder about the future. I thought about where I could end up, what I might be doing and who I may be with.

ButI didn’t dwell too much on those details. Rather, I was more interested in what my future self thought about his (my) life. I thought of my future self thinking back to the past (my present) and listing all of the things that he never did and that I will never do.

Most people like to talk about their life goals and dreams. Some feel compelled to brag about them, harping about the things they’ve never done but will definitely do when the time is right or the money is available. They hold onto these hopes believing, whether realistically or not, that they will all come true. In fact, some of them do come true. After all, not all of these goals are big aspirations; some hope simply for a painless trip to the dentist or sunshine on Saturday.

As I thought about myself in the future, I wanted to think about the life goals that managed to slip away. The first thing I recognized as I looked back is how I never made it to the NBA. As of today, I find myself with no other choice but to accept that my professional basketball career will never get off the ground. Even though I would be just entering my prime, the NBA draft is no longer realistic.

Growing up, I would shoot hoops out on the driveway, shouting “Reggie Miller!” as the ball left my hands, clanged around the rim awhile, and occasionally fell through the net very Reggie Miller-like. Sometimes I would post up with my back to the basket and hit a jump hook, shouting “Hakeem!” so kids in the neighborhood knew I was just like Hakeem Olajuwan, outside of the whole African thing.

Back in the day, I assumed playing in the NBA was an inalienable right granted to me upon my birth. I was destined for hoops greatness.

Turns out, I was mistaken.

Now I sit at a desk, occasionally shouting “Jack Welch!” so that those in the cubicles next to me would recognize that I am just like the former CEO of General Electric, brokering multimillion dollar deals while appeasing the shareholders. Sitting at my desk, people would think Jack Welch was sitting right there. Shave a few billions from Welch’s net worth and we’re practically twins.

As I reflected on my non-existent and never-beginning basketball career, I thought about how that means I’ll never play in an All Star game, win an MVP award, or play for the Dream Team. I also will not become a professional baseball, hockey, or football player either, now that I think about it.

I don’t even own a tennis racket so Wimbledon seems like a long shot at this point too.

Once past the sporting world, I wondered about what other things will never come true. Things that I always wanted to do when I was a kid.

Growing up, my career path was always changing. Now that I’m in the working world, I’ve realized that I will never be a cop or a fireman. I won’t be a doctor, a fighter pilot, a lawyer, or a spy.

While there’s still time for me to become an astronaut, I just can’t see it happening. My future self has been stuck on Terra Firma with no hope of leaving ground this whole time. Of course, there are probably some things I could still do that could lead to my astronauting. But I don’t think I have the energy. You need to take specific steps to become an astronaut and I haven’t even got the ball rolling, let alone looked at the hill I have to push the darned thing down.

Also, I’ll never try frog legs. My future self is okay with that. My present self has no complaints either.

I can’t picture any situation where I end up in South Dakota either. I don’t know what’s there. Beautiful countryside? The greatest burger joint? Maybe that’s where the world’s largest pie pan resides?

But I’ll never see any of that.

At no point in my life will I have bought a South Dakotan bumper sticker or a lovely South Dakotan t-shirt with a funny South Dakotan saying printed on it. My future self can only dream about what South Dakota looks like because he will have never experienced it first hand.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

I really don’t think I’m missing anything. Then again, I’ll never get to find out what I’m missing.

My livelong dream of spending a summer at Camp Anawanna – a place I hold in my heart and which, when thinking about it, makes me want to fart – will never come to fruition. I suppose I could go outside and salute my own shorts, but that would be weird. Right?

People say they want to learn a foreign language, but I don’t see it happening at this point. I won’t see an elephant out in the wild either. And I doubt I’ll ever have a cup of coffee with Jeff Goldblum. I’m 50/50 on this. On the one hand, it’s Jeff Goldblum; on the other it is just Jeff Goldblum, you know?

I’ll never be able to pull off wearing a tank-top unironically.

At no point do I see myself taking karate lessons.

I sincerely believe I fill visit other countries, but not nearly as many as I want.

I will never be a bus driver. I will never learn to drive a bus. Hell, I will never even sit in the driver seat of a parked school bus. There are billions upon billions of people on this planet and only a small percentage can drive a bus. If my future self keeps up with his math skills (he won’t), he would be able to calculate the percentage of humans that are bus drivers, a percentage that doesn’t include him.

Despite owning several hats, I don’t see myself ever regularly wearing a baseball cap.

I can learn to juggle, but I won’t.

I can buy a cat, but I won’t.

I can get a tattoo, but I won’t and I can’t for I would pass out at the sight of the colored tipped needle moving towards my exposed skin. My future self will have the same color skin that I live with now.

I won’t dye my hair a different color or go through this weird stage where I walk around wearing black eye liner.

As my future self does a self body-scan, he would notice that he went through life – and that I will go through life – having never gotten a nipple ring (society, you’re welcome).

When my future self is done dwelling on the missed opportunities, he will surely reminiscence about all of the exciting and thrilling things that he did manage to do. The people he met; the food he tried; the things he did and learned; and the all of the places that he went, albeit without Jeff Goldbum.

And probably without the Swedish bikini team either, but you never know. Some dreams are worth hanging onto.

Hulkamania Runs Wild in My Dream

Allow me to share a dream I had:

I was golfing down in Florida. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon; there were no clouds in the sky. The green leaves hanging from the trees seemed to glisten. While walking down the fairway, I ran into none other than Hulk Hogan and Jimmy “The Mouth of the South” Hart. We get to talking and start hanging out at this unnamed resort.

After we complete our round – I don’t recall what I shot, but I imagine that even in my dreams I shanked a few dozen into the woods – we head to the clubhouse for lunch. As we walk into the crowded restaurant, we run into Hogan’s ex-wife, Linda.

It was awwwwkward.

I could definitely feel the tension in the room. Things were so tense, I almost woke up.

The Mouth of the South and myself both thought it would be wise to steer the Hulkster away from his ex-wife. However, he was in a confrontational mood; I suspect that’s what made him such an excellent wrestler. While they argued at first, that quickly blew over. Soon Hogan started talking amicably with his ex-wife.

Before you know it, they decided to get back together.

To make their re-coupling official, they decide to hold a wedding reception – without the wedding part – at the resort. They planned to hold the reception in an outdoor courtyard. The area was enclosed with huge arches that were wrapped in vines. It really was a sight to behold. To further accentuate the bright blue skies and glimmering greenery, the Hogans brought in a famous decorator to dress up the courtyard. While the decorator was preparing the courtyard for the big non-wedding wedding reception, the resort owner entered and asked to see Hogan’s ex-wife’s wedding dress.

She didn’t have one.

We quickly discovered that this particular resort had this rule that anyone who used the courtyard must wear a wedding dress. Since there was to be no wedding, she didn’t have a wedding dress. Naturally, she tried to play the “Hogan card” to get an exception made, but that didn’t work with this owner. I suspected that he was more of an Ultimate Warrior fan growing up.

Hogan was quiet the whole time the owner and the ex-wife argued. I suspected this was his way of keeping the new-found peace. The argument with the owner ended with the ex-wife refusing to wear a wedding dress. This, in turn, ticked off the decorator because now all of his work was done for not. He really did have an impressive amount done in what seemed to be three minutes top.

The centerpiece on all of the tables were these white vases holding pink flowers that you could just tell the ex-wife did not like; and the decorator could tell too. I don’t know if it was the color or the simplicity of the pieces that Linda despised. I’m not too up on this stuff, whether it be in my dreams or in real life, but from what I remember, the centerpieces looked fine to me.

However, Linda clearly did not share my opinion. There was this unspoken tension brewing with the decorator. While nothing was ever explicitly said, I got the feeling there was some history between these two. They went back a ways, no doubt about it. I was curious if Hulk Hogan knew this. Part of me believed that if he did, he would have never agreed to let this particular decorator work his second wedding reception. On the other hand, love can make a man do crazy things and perhaps the thought of getting back together with his ex-wife was enough to prevent Hulkamania from doing a leg drop on the chap.

Anyways…

The ex-wife eventually agreed to get a wedding dress from a Jamaican dress designer who created her original wedding dress. It should be noted that I’m not sure if that meant she was ordering a dress from Jamaica or having a Jamaican woman fly in and create one.

Linda even agreed to keep the pink flowers and this, in turn, made the decorator happy. The pieces were starting to fall into place.

Despite the positive turn of events, something still seemed off. I gave Jimmy Hart a look and we were thinking the same thing – this reunion will never last.

You could just tell by the subtexts that there was still some unresolved conflict between Hogan and his ex-wife. We just knew that Hogan would end up getting hurt in the long run. And based on his body language, I think Hogan realized that too. But even if there was pain later, he deserved this one day of happiness and neither Jimmy Hart or myself were going to take that away from him.

After deciding to let Hogan attempt to reconcile with his wife, I awoke.

My dream was complex than most that I remember. This particular one was built using some classic sitcom plot devices. There was the “where’s the wedding dress?” conundrum that almost prevented the non-wedding from happening. And of course there was the “oh no, we pissed off the decorator! My wedding is going to be ruined!”

Despite the traditional boy meets girl plot, the dream put a little twist on these otherwise popular conventions. The ending even took a much different tone than most would have expected. Even though Hogan was getting back together with his ex-wife, you would think that would mean a happy ending.

But really, it was quite bittersweet.

I know that that happy ending would only be temporary. But my dream wasn’t about six months down the line. It was about that one moment when two botox babies came together to reconciles their differences in the name of love.

Despite the storm clouds looming over the horizon, I still have hope that the two can get back together and be happy, if only in my dreams.