Adventures in going out, staying in, and acting up
I need to get my ass to the gym. I’ve done nothing this week but work, drink, and eat. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, my job enables a slovenly lifestyle. Covering Boston’s nightlife is fun, but the excesses are many: a lunch meeting with a chef who wants you to try everything on his new menu; several glasses of red wine paired with a near-inappropriate inability to stop eating cheese chunks at an art gallery opening; a drunken 3 a.m. diner breakfast so large that an unavoidable food coma causes you to “nap” right there in the booth, pressed between your friend and the cold window you’re propped up against. Shhh... he’s sleeping. Isn’t he cute? Rub some
butter on his lips — they look chapped.
So this Saturday night, I’m at the gym. I’m trying to decide if that makes me a loser or supercool. On one hand, I appear to be someone who values a healthy lifestyle s much so that I’m willing to forgo an evening out for a few hours of sweat and self improvement. On the other hand, I’m the same dude you saw blacked out and buttered at South Street Diner the other night, and now it’s clear to you that I’m nothing but a drunken loner.
My gym is fairly simple. Somehow I’ve managed to avoid joining one of those more social health clubs. For me, workout time is alone time. I clip my Shuffle to my shorts, disappear in whatever angry/sad/inspirational playlist I currently have loaded, and I get my shit done — mentally and physically. I need that time to put myself back together. I like to lift weights, clear my head, and work up a stench that would keep even the hungriest mosquito at bay.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I like a little eye candy around when I’m working out. It can be quite motivational. There’s no denying the subtle (or in some cases, not-so-subtle) sexual undercurrents of a good workout. The movements, the sounds, and the sweat are all very similar. The problem with that is that not only does it allow you to imagine the humping abilities of that sexy brunette doing deep knee bends in front of you, it also allows you to do the same for that hairy, 50-year-old dude in dress socks who’s laying on a mat next to you stretching out his groin. Go easy there, Richard Simmons. Nobody needs to see anything pop outta those nifty li’l shortshorts you’ve got on.
You know who has the gym social scene down pat? The gays. (Well, gay men, anyway. And I’ve got to imagine there’s a similar party going on in the ladies’ locker room.) Some nights, it’s like a gay disco. Guys are wandering around the locker room with their junk all out and about, comparing lotion and talking about where the big party is later. It can be a bit uncomfortable, but I gotta say, I totally get it. If there were a place in Boston where I could go get all worked up and then showe in a room full of women, I’d be there every single night. Until such a place exists, though, I’ll just continue to avoid both eye contact and the steam room. Carry on, boys. Carry on.
And while we’re on the subject of proper lockerroom etiquette: old people, wrap a towel around it, will ya? I realize at home it may be okay for you to shave in the nude, but it’s not okay at the gym. Like I said, my time here heals me both physically and mentally. Last thing I need to see after a good brain dump is your wrinkly ass bent over a sink as you try to shave one of those hardtoreach places. Buy a robe.
Okay, enough smartass observations for one night. I need to hit the treadmill and get the hell out of here. I overheard a few of the gay guys talking about a new restaurant downtown. Apparently the chocolate cake is to die for.
Michael Diskin can be reached at mdiskin@stuffatnight.com
