Here's what's up. I draw my life experience from several places: The Gym, Monday Morning Meetings, and Google. On a given treadmill workout, J-Fizz and I can cover most subjects from Tiger Woods to fashion faux pas. The Y can be circus...which is why I train in a more elite location, select number of people.
I deal with enough nuts on the phones for 9 hours each day. Why would I want to cruise next to Short Smelly Guy on the elliptical or battle through the less-than-modest locker room scene. No thanks.
The other gym junkies that I train with are unnnnreal, courtesy of J-Fizz's WTF ways. And they're all much more fit than me (FYI: a cube career comes complete with coffee breath, carpel tunnel, and gut). Anyways. Our sweet, 60-yr-old Mary-anne did a 72-mile bike ride this past weekend. Straight up BAMF. And she's ripped. Unfortunately her email shout-out sent a mixed signal, and we ran into all sorts of bad visuals. Think: dudes in spandex.
Hell. Freaking. No. The Gym's sugar daddy, Big Mike, thought he could sway us with the notion of some 'lycra' material. You know what their website boasts? That this 'intimate fabric is enchanting and inspiring'. Yeahhhhh boy. Spandex, lycra...that family of fabrics is about as hot as a fanny pack.
Now. Consider the fanny pack. A practical "luggage-ing" application for the on-the-go, competitive biker of the Twenty-First Century. Except not.
Anything you got strapped that close to your goods should probably be left at home. Locked up. And in the basement. Prime example of how to make a good deal go bad - FAST (tip is courtesy J-Fizz).
Big Mike came into the gym this morning proudly sporting his fanny pack. J-Fizz was practically dry heaving in the corner; rocking back and forth, chanting to herself, "LL Cool J. LL Cool J. LL Cool J..." The only thing that saved me was knowing I'd see Nealon and his tanned biceps at The Office in a few short hours. It was a close call...too close.
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