The Worst Time at the Gym*

Alec Baldwin is a liar. Schwetty Balls are not a tasty treat.

About a year ago I tried Bikram Yoga, which is practiced in a room kept at over 100 degrees. It was a full class, the population trending towards men over 50 wearing bright bikini bottoms. It smelled bad in that room. It smelled really bad. And that was before the stretching even began. As legs began to spread, thighs and hips opening and twisting, it became overpowering. Halfway through I excused myself and threw up in the bathroom.

Now let's gather all that sweat and old man pubes and vomit into one giant scrotum, and then wring it out all over me while I'm trying to run. That is basically what happened to me on this day, April 12 in the year of our Lord, 2011.

I usually get to the gym by 3pm because I belong to a chain gym and if I go much later I have to wait in line for 45 minutes for a machine I plan to use for 20. But I stupidly took a nap and got there late, when all the 9-5ers were showing up. Lucky for me, there still an unoccupied treadmill. Hooray!

The smell hit me before I even stepped onto the belt. It smelled like balls. Sweaty, hairy balls in a nest of unshampooed pubes tangled with old semen. Why I thought I could deal with it for 3 miles I do not know. There was a line forming for the machines, and I really didn't want to wait. I programed my machine, texted everyone in my phonebook that I was running next to a stinky, human crotch, and tried to power through.

I tried not to look at Stinky Balls, but he was making some weird movements that caught my eye. He was wearing a hat (The golfer-y kind Samuel L. Jackson favors), a long-sleeved shirt, and pants. And he was drenched with sweat. He looked like he'd just jogged out of a swimming pool. And he was wringing his sleeves out all over his machine. Every time he jerked his arm I felt the clammy prickle of his sweat. There were puddles in the cup holders. Even the man who runs in the garbage bag suit doesn't sweat like that.

Instead of, oh, I don't know, getting off the fucking machine, I kept running, with a bitch expression on my face. He kept looking over at me. His sharp exhalations cause sweat to ricochet off his lip and onto my arm. Suddenly he reached over to poke my water bottle. A rivulet of sweat tipped out of his sleeve and onto my legs like a stream from a teapot. 

"AHHH!" I said.

"Your water bottle..." he gasped. "It's going to... fall... if you keep running... that hard."

"I DON'T CARE!" I said and ran as close to the edge of the belt as I could. I was terrified I might misstep, my senses clouded with the sour stench, and he'd try to grab me before I fell, baptizing me into the Church of The Stinky Balls. I turned my head to the side and ran faster, like it would carry me farther away from him.

Somehow I completed my run without passing out/vomiting/crying (well, I cried a little bit)/changing machines. I wish I could say I told him off, or told the staff, or did anything but bolt from the building. Instead I skipped my cool-down and fled the gym and my leg was seized by a charlie horse halfway home.

THE END, a photo by Dill Pixels on Flickr.

*Even worse than the time I fell off a treadmill in front of Dave Grohl.