So I went to the gym today, and I was expecting a mob scene. You know how it works: People make all kinds of resolutions to join a gym or get in shape or lose 20 pounds and give it their best shot for two weeks, and it really cramps my style when they hog all the machines at my club in the process.
The guy I saw managed to dislocate something and get his foot up over his head.
However, perhaps due to ye olde econonomy, things were pretty normal. I did see a number of folks on sales tours, but all in all it was a typical Saturday morning with the usual suspects (Old Chinese guy who does everything at triple speed, Anthony Hopkins doppleganger, my friend and chiropractor who is a serious gym rat, etc. etc.).
So status quo except for a few weird ass things going on that I have to tell you about. In fact, the silver lining of the whole experience was the happy realization that “Houston, we have blog material…”
So without further ado: I was sitting there quietly working on my triceps in a most lady-like and human fashion, and to what to my wondering eyes should appear but this woman crawling along the floor in what could only be a reenactment of the stages of evolution. Seriously. It was whacked.
Upon closer examination, she was apparently executing a push-up going into a lunge going into a push-up, a la “the crawl of a dying gila monster” back and forth across the room, and I felt embarrassed just looking at her. She must have been at it for hours, too, because I saw her more than once as I mixed in the biceps and triceps machines that line that section of the gym. She would come in the corner of my peripheral vision, and I would think “What is that!?!?” (being unaccustomed to large objects lumbering around on the ground at the gym), and thar she blows. Back and forth in the open area between the weights and exercise bikes, performing her strange one-woman show for all 50 people in the cardio areas’ enjoyment.
I’m certain if she saw videotape she would never do that in public again.
Oh, my stars. See what I'm saying? Is this really necessary?
Anyway, in an effort to avert my eyes, I looked away in the direction of the basketball court wherein I happened to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a foot sitting atop a head. I squinted and yes, there was a guy with a stretch band tied around his ankle, yanking his foot over his skull and toward his stomach.
I don’t know who advised this or how it’s a good idea, but what does a stretch band cost? Five dollars? Less? Don’t these people know that they can do this weird stuff at home? The slithering crawler lady would be better off at home where at least the germs all over the floor are hers.
I, for one, perform all odd-looking or awkwardly posed activities (i.e. everything abdominal and all squat-based or lunge-related behavior) behind closed doors. We’re all better off that way.
In other news, I attempted to watch the movie Julie and Julia last night. I had heard good things about it from everyone from girlfriends to male friends to my male dermatologist, probably because I have a blog…although not one with a book deal. (Note to self: GET A GODDAMNED GIMMICK ALREADY!!!)
Anyway, it’s still sitting in the DVD player half-watched because – and I don’t mean to sound like a prude here – but I was getting unnerved by all the suggestions of Julia Child’s ardent sex life. I mean, it’s JULIA CHILD already. She kind of looks like Susan Boyle. And she talks all weird (what WAS that? She was American, right?), and I really don’t want to see her rolling around in bed – again and again and again – with Stanley Tucci.
I have to imagine the real Mr. Child was not nearly so good-looking as Stanley Tucci, and I will never ever ever Google an image to find out. What I’m already picturing with his beloved wife is bad enough.
I just did it.
Why do I do this to myself?
It’s horrible folks.
It’s worse than I imagined…
He’s a little tiny old man and she’s gigantic. Oh baby.
God bless 'em. I'm glad they were happy. I just don't need to see footage (real or recreated) of them in bed.
So where was I?
Oh, yes, Julia made some comment about “It’s like a stiff cock!” and admittedly I wasn’t looking at the screen and maybe she was talking about a dead rooster or something, but I don’t care. That was it for me. Movie off.
I think it’s just that there’s some people where it’s better if they keep it to themselves.
If I went to a movie called Maddy and Madonna all about how 30-something Madelieine is hoping to learn the entire Madonna songbook on the ukulele and inter-spliced with scenes from the now-deceased Madonna’s life, I would expect a fair amount of sex. We all remember the “Truth or Dare” years and the cone bra and Sean Penn and Dennis Rodman and David Blaine and the father of Lourdes and Guy Ritchie and allegedly Sandra Bernhardt and on and on and on…
It’s to be expected.
I wouldn’t be shocked or put off or creeped out.
But 6’2″ weird-talking linebacker Julia Child and her tiny Mr. Magoo husband? I don’t wanna know.
Just talk to me about butter and pastry and keep it clean.