You Lookin’ at Me? (Revisted)

This post is about my gym and how much I friggen LOVE it there. Why? Because there, I don’t give a CRAP about what others think of me. There, I, in my own mind, and the sexxiest bitch in the room…

I’m sure you can imagine me in my little gym outfit: hair perfectly thrown into a high ponytail, tight workout pants with no VPL because of the “gym-thong“, and a hot little sportsbra.

Um… No, no. I’m over here. Yeah, that’s me in the stained tanktop and ilfitted pants because I’m too cheap to actually pay money for gym clothes. My hair is thrown into some semblance of a nest atop my head, and my legs are not shaved. So not shaved.

Now, ladies, feel free to be jealous. Go on. I’ll wait. I go to the gym and unapologetically strut around looking like absolute crap and don’t have anything to worry about. Why? Because I go to a “soccer mom gym”. I believe I’ve mentioned it before. Because the majority of the women at my gym are old and, well, soccermomish, I tend to go to the gym and feel pretty damn good about myself.

With my gym-specific self esteem, I have fallen victim to what I’m sure is a disorder: I love to catch people looking at me when I workout. I am not so naive to think they aren’t staring at my hairy armpits or crooked glasses, but I much prefer to think they are staring at my bulging muscles and glistening sweat. Delusions work for me. Whatever. Don’t judge.

Some women hate going to the gym because they have to look all prim and proper and cute and show off for all the other women who are there. And the guys. I say, take back the gym. Own it. Tell those cute bitches to go shove it. Tell them you hope their thong slices right through their butt cheeks while they’re on the stairmaster.

But don’t get me wrong, sometimes if I know I’ll be at the gym at the same time as one of the 3 hot guys who goes to my gym, I’ll opt for the short tennis socks instead of my super hot slouch socks that look so rad with my cropped gym pants. Or, I’ll wear my black tanktop instead of my pit stained white tank top just for an added confidence booster.

Look, I’ve been working out regularly for 2 years now and at this point I’m bored. I hate it. My routine has become… routine? I need a little something to get me through each exercise. Something to get me to the gym. Playing games with boys at the gym, even when I know full well I’m the only one of the two of us playing, is fine with me. Hopping from machine to machine to get closer to my target, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye as I lift round abouts 1/3 of the weight he’s lifting. Hoping more that he’ll see me lifting said weight, fall madly in love with me for who I am on the inside and never have to go back to the f-ing gym again… ever. Gah.

But with that hope dwindling, I continue to go to the gym, continue to let the other soccer moms stare with udder jealously as I hold the attention of… like that one guy over there who thinks he’s not too old or too married to hold court with a 25 year old gymrat like me. I continue to secretly revel in the knowledge that I can easily lift 3-5 lbs more than these women twice my age. I take pride in the fact that they wasted all their money on cute matching outfits when I look so clearly hot in my mismatched, dirty hand me downs.

Today, the goal is to make it through the day, my muscles twitching in pain from taking a gym class that was just so far out of my athletic capabilities…. one that was populated entirely by these same soccer moms who thankfully didn’t notice the 5′9” young (hot) chick at the back of the class who couldn’t quite keep up. Damn it.