So my gym is doing another contest.
And we all know how Megan feels about a fitness contest.
(obviously excited enough to refer to herself in the third person)
And yet again, there is not really a "winner, " technically.
(Side note: What is that about? This no-winner contest stuff? It's like my gym is run by the same parents who think it's okay for every kid or every team to get a trophy just because they don't want some kids to have hurt feelings. Losing builds character. Just ask any loser.)
Anyhoo, the contest goes like this: For every gym workout, you get a little punch on your 15-spot punch card. After you fill one card up, you get a tote.
And I luuuuuvvvvvs me a tote.
No, seriously. I do. Love them. Closet full of them. It's as if I had the foresight years ago to know that, at some point, a tote would become the cool way to carry groceries. Check ME out! I'm doin' it! I'm livin' the dream! I'm one of the cool, no-plastic-sack-for-me grocery carriers!
And then after you fill up a second 15-punch card, you get.....tah dah!
A tee shirt.
This being the YMCA, it's of the cotton variety, not the technical wicking.
But cotton tee-shirts are cool because - a couple snips of a scissors, a needle, some thread - and voila! You can fashion yourself yet ANOTHER fancy grocery tote!
I saw it on Etsy.
Girls, you know what I'm talking about.
And the finale- After a THIRD 15-spot punch card is filled (for those math-impaired, that's 45 trips to the gym), you get entered into a raffle for....*drum roll*
Free Personal Training.
Not sure yet what part of that statement is more exciting - the "free" or the "personal training" but who cares - put them together and they equal nothing short of a perfect six hours of bliss for broke-ass psychos like myself.
The very thought of some trainer making me cry Jillian-and-Bob style, forcing me into new positions, and making me build muscles I never knew existed....Sigh.
It's enough to make me want to put down the popcorn and Jolly Ranchers, strap on the sports bra, and run over there now. At 11pm.
So needless to say, I manage to get myself to gym pretty regularly these last few weeks. Even when I do my rides at home, or run on the outside path, I still go at the end of the day to do weights for about an hour.
But this whole long story is really just a lead-up to what the real issue of the day is. See, the more I am at the gym, the more I am assaulted by this issue:
There appears to be a Crocs-and-denim-jeans epidemic at my gym.
Sure, it's no swine flu, you're probably saying to yourself.
But it's here, and it's real, people.
Perhaps I am just now around more to notice, and don't get me wrong - I am definately NOT judging the fitness fashion choices of others (contrary to my habitation of the gym, I am not that big of a gym snob). Rather, it just seems to me that it would be...uncomfortable to be sweatin' in that get-up, no?
I mean, most days I can barely stand the touch of my technical, moisture wicking fabrics against my skin in the stuffy, sometimes-poorly-ventilated cardio room (though just stuffy enough for that timeless skill of trapping and magnifying the most heinous of farts as only a steam-filled room can do - farts of which are coincidentally left behind by the guy on the treadmill next to me, or the man using the machines just before me, as if they were the artist painting the outline of a fart cloud around my head for the rest of the gym patrons to see and draw inaccurate conclusions).
So I can only imagine how sticky it would be to try to pound out a solid effort in Levi's, or do a jog/stairmaster in some Crocs originals.
Not baggin' on the Crocs - I myself wear a pair of the flip-flops ones - but to workout in them?
Eh, maybe I just don't get the mid-lifer population these days. Maybe one day, I'll be trottin' on the eliptical in my hospital gown and bootie slippers with my own devil-may-care attitude, who knows.
And kudos to them, unbreathable fabrics or not, for even getting themselves to the gym, and on the machine in the first place. I mean, it's not about what you look like, it's that you show up, right? Right.
I guess it's that commitment to fitness that reminds me not to lose sight of what's really important here:
How many hole-punches do these Croc-and-jean wearers have, 'cause I'll be a steaming hot son-of-a-gun if they try to steal my free training hours from me.
That is all.