Mish Mosh

Blood Sucker
I saw a grown ass man with a hickey at the gym today.



And by grown ass, I mean like 50.

Now, I’m no prude, but I always assumed that hickeys stopped being cool three weeks prior to ALWAYS.

Honestly, there is no workout THAT important that you have to risk public hickey humiliation to do.

I mean, grab a beer, hit the couch, and wait it out.

Because people like me are staring.

And judging.

Gross.


Dirty
Speaking of the gym, there seems to be a new trend.

Last year around this time, all the New Years Resolutioners who otherwise only pass by the gym on the way to the Olive Garden were sporting the denim-jeans-as-workout-attire trend.

Which makes sense, right? I mean, who doesn’t want to work up a good sweat in the ultra-unbreathable fabric of denim?

Feeling the burn as those soggy jeans hug the thighs like heavy-duty Seran Wrap.

Spectacular.

The year, however, seems to be the year of the Bare Feet.

Perhaps this is spawned by the newfound cult-forming book “Born to Run” (side note – I wouldn’t exactly know this, though, because truth be told it’s been on my Amazon.com wish list, but I’ve put myself on a book-buying diet this year until I make it through the stacks in my house - but people are raving).

And that’s cool – I get it. We athletes are all about the new – gadgets, training tools, concepts.

Trust me, I don’t embrace my “scrappy athlete” title willingly – if I weren’t so poor (don’t let the “doctor” title fool you – I still work in child welfare), I too would guinea-pig myself with all the new crap (including a Computrainer, hint, hint, wink, wink).

So I get the intrigue of trying out all the new stuff - or in this case, the new “concept.”

But if you are taking yourself to the gym – home of the nastiest, most evolved colonies of germs and disease, shouldn’t you at least try to get yourself a pair of those finger-shoes? You know, the ones that have a little space for each toe, as if to simulate bare feet?



Because seriously – if you want to run free as a 5-year-old along the lakefront path and risk glass, twigs, and pebbles – have at it. I support all sorts of athletic endeavors.

But if you want to go to my gym, put your sweaty, fungusy, hang-naily, toe-jammy, dirty ass feet all over the same equipment that I also use – well, now it’s personal.


I Stand Corrected
Completely un-athletic related, I saw a short clip of a recent American Idol tryout the other day. Apparently some guy has something to say about pants being on the ground, and I was the last one to know about it.

I admit my shock to discover that this show is still on the air.

I mean – really.

I know not ONE person that watches this crap.

So I thought to myself, “Self, surely there is nothing – not ONE single thing- in the world I care less about than American Idol.”

But then I found myself bombarded with “breaking” news that Simon Cowell was leaving the show. It was even on my local nightly news.



And – whoops! Whatdaya know?

There’s that one thing.