Saturday, 4 October 2008
I went to a “political fundraiser” last night, and by that I mean my friend is running for reelection in the ANC and a wine-and-cheese party was thrown in his honor. There were lots of people there I didn’t know and a near-equal number of people I didn’t feel like getting to know, but a few proved worthy of the risk of uncomfortable small talk, including this kid I recognized from my gym.
Now, unlike the completely ridiculous Vida that opened on 15th and P Streets last week, my gym is far from a gay discotheque masquerading as a health club. In fact, it caters pretty strongly to that niche market of individuals who go to the gym to - wait for it - work out. No one talks to each other, eye contact is avoided, and military efficiency both in the locker room and near the weight racks is encouraged. And so for me to admit to recognizing a fellow gym member at a party is almost taboo, because it would imply my attention at some point during a workout drifted from the task at hand to the face of another human being. But whatever, I stare creepily at people all the time, so I walked right up to him last night and said hi.
As it turns out, he recognized me as well (obviously) and we debated briefly the hotness level of the male trainers based on height, hair style, and bicep size. I also commented on the fact that he works with a trainer while I do not, feigning a tinge of jealousy, even though I strongly prefer to perform bench presses without looking up the shorts of someone who’s being paid to shout at me. The conversation was going fine, until one of my friends walked over.
“Oh, hey, this is ___, we go to the same gym. He has a trainer, I don’t.”
The unintentional cattiness of my remark was further enforced by my friend, who said, “Really?” and laughed.
I’m looking forward to returning to the gym on Monday, where a 50-pound dumbbell will likely be dropped on my foot.
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