You probably know who I am so I won't bother introducing myself by name. I'm the guy who has a near-constant disgusted look on his face that you apparently think is a vast improvement over the vomit-related reactions you otherwise inspire in those around you.
To be clear, just because I am not puking as you repeatedly saunter by in what can only be described as an unreasonably loose fitting powder blue camisole and black stretch pants does not mean that I am hitting on you.
I used to think the old man who for some reason works out in business casual attire complete with khakis, a golf shirt, and a belt was by and far the least appropriately dressed person there.
God, I miss those days.
I am a firm believer in "no means no". Call me a gentleman, if you will. You are obviously more comfortable with the credo "if he maces me one more time, I'm gonna think about working out further away than 18 inches away from this guy".
The orangish hue of the bag that contains your Erector-set-like skeletal system is something that can only be achieved though years of exposure to near fatal doses of purely artificial UV light. No. I'm wrong. I have seen material of that color and texture elsewhere but it is usually used in the construction of the bands of watches you can buy on QVC for ten dollars a dozen.
I kid my wife sometimes and tell her that as soon as my GQ photo shoot deal comes through I am totally dumping her. See, that's my way of acknowledging that I have imperfections, and this acknowledgment is what prevents me from constantly humming the song "Oh Lord It's Hard to be Humble" while gazing lovingly at myself in one of the gym mirrors. While I cheerfully give you a ten out of ten for self-confidence, I cannot help but think that your "all that and a bag of chips" mannerisms are drug induced, clearly listed in the "side effects may include..." documentation of whatever medication you are on that allows you to cheat Death for yet another day.
You have as much right to work out there as I do, I'll grant you that. But is the exact geographical center of the gym the best place to do your thirty minutes of eye-watering yoga stretches? I, and possibly anyone else with functioning optic nerves, would argue that the empty area in the corner marked "Stretching Station" might be a better choice. Otherwise you may as well be yelling "Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me" while doing a little dance.
On second thought, don't do that.
Look, the last thing I need when I am trying to do a few sets of cooldown dips is to be uncomfortably trapped by what you probably consider a "come hither" look. Now, I am not narcissistic enough to think I am the only one on your radar - you are clearly operating in broadcast mode here. I just wish I could "opt out" or be placed on a "do not creep out" list so I can finish up my routine in peace.
I take some comfort in the fact that, statistically speaking, I should outlive you by a good decade and a half so I can look forward to a time in the future where my eyes don't involuntarily slam themselves shut in an effort of self-preservation as you mount the treadmill next to mine. This assumes, though, that I can squeeze in time to exercise in between expensive therapy sessions focused on erasing these bad memories and replacing them with false ones that are far more pleasant.
Like being repeatedly shivved in a prison shower or something.
Sincerely,
That One Guy in the Mighty Taco T-Shirt
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