Instead of working out at a standard gym, I train at a Dojo. There are no rows of machines or showers or TVs. There are only classes: Tae Bo, kickboxing/boxing and strength training.
We don’t choose our music, it’s chosen for us. We don’t choose our work-out; the instructor tells us what to do. My indecisive nature thrives in this environment. What does not thrive is my positive attitude:
If you don’t know what you are doing, do not stand in front of me. Your sucky lame moves are distracting. If I follow you, everyone behind me will follow me, and we’ll all look like a bunch of animals in heat. Not cool.
Rhythm is clearly not a skill that most people have.
How many of these people have graduated from kindergarten? Probably five because we’re the only ones who have mastered counting to eight.
I will literally kick you if you come into my space.
Why with all of the personal hygiene products on the market have you decided that your body odor does not need to be masked? You smell like a vat of chicken soup that has been used to douse a skunk that has been sprayed by another skunk. Your smell makes me want to drown myself in the sweat pile of that man whose Tightie Whities I can see through his work-out shorts.
What is the point of a thong if all of the sweat accumulates on your butt crack outlining your entire G-string? Is visible panty sweat better or worse than visible panty line?
Where did the word panty come from? And why does adding a ‘y’ to the end of a word automatically make it a descriptor: laze-lazy, smell-smelly, stupid-stupidy? That one doesn’t really work.
I loathe the Black Eyed Peas song, “I Gotta Feeling.” I am holding this squat position for like 2 frickin’ minutes and there is nothing good or Mazaltov-y about it.
Why are you smiling? This is not fun. You look ridiculous with that goofy grin plastered on your face. Who are you trying to impress? You fool! Oh shoot, the instructor is looking at me. I’d better smile.