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11:00 a.m. - 2010-01-27
She Belongs To Herself

Still no clue as to what's causing the mystery bruise. Then again MIL and I don't have a set routine, we tend to wander and just hop onto the machines we like and get good use of when and if they're available. Even going about things in such a random fashion we think we're doing well and using every part of us over the course of the workout. Mick always does very specific routines honed over decades of gym time to concentrate on a particular set of muscles per workout. One day he'll do shoulders and biceps, another day concentrating on pecs and delts. Since MIL and I are shooting for all over toning we think our 'some of everything' approach will work for us best. Besides, trying to do everything in a set pattern and rigid order is imposs, not with the machine hogs at PF clogging things up and taking root on the machines. It's always the most popular machines too. You'd think if you're just going to sit on something doing nothing that common sense and good manners would dictate that you choose a machine that sees very little use, wouldn't you? Like that big clunky shoulder press thing that no one EVER uses because it's too confusing to adjust properly. The guys doing their imaginary workouts could sit on that one for hours and nobody would mind. But then if those hogs had any sense and manners they wouldn't just sit around doing nothing on any of the machines at all, they'd stay home and get the same 'workout' in their recliners.

I know I said I wasn't interested in doing cardio at PF. I get my ya-yas out housecleaning to the driving beat of trance music to get my heart going and breathe like a bellows while scrubbing and sweeping. But yesterday MIL and I did as much weight as we could but had a little gas left so we hopped onto the treadmills. I was anxious, the ones at PF are kind of complicated with all sorts of electronic gizmos and settings. I got it figured out eventually and began my trudge to nowhere. Each cardio machine at PF has its own TV. The TVs have the volume turned way down and the closed captioning on so you're not involuntarily subjected to your neighbor's choice of program. My TV was tuned to the History channel which at the time was playing some lame thing about Nostradamus and Hitler, so I flipped over to Food Network. The small irony of watching food shows while working out amused me. Unfortunately Emeril was on and I don't care for him, especially after the way he turned tail and fled New Orleans after Katrina. You'd hope that one of the Big Easy's most popular spokesmen would have been at the forefront of the rescue and recovery, but noooo. Emeril with his big fat face and tiny little balls disappeared like smoke. Not coming back to the Crescent City until others had cleaned the touristy parts of the French Quarter all up and he could reopen his fancy pants restaurants without shelling out a dime of his own money or an ounce of sweat equity. Shithead. I'd like to BAM! Emeril upside his sleazy, cheapskate, cowardly head.

Speaking of sleaze-balls, I came this )( close to staging an intervention at PF yesterday. I was over in the bad ass section doing my cable pull and there was a lovely young woman doing excruciating leg lift crunches on the bench to my right. I was in awe of her strength and grace. I'll bet her abs can deflect bullets. On another nearby machine was the King of the Peacocks. Late 60s, I guess, but very fit. His hair was perfect, a weave, of course, but he had it floofed and sprayed very nicely. He also didn't subscribe to 'the zanier the better' PF dress code and was wearing what had to be a $300 color coordinated outfit. Even without the pricey togs and spendy hairdo one look at this guy and you're almost barfing from the smug self-satisfied reek coming off him. You know those old dudes? The ones whose vanity overshadows all else? The intensely groomed ones with the subtle fake bake tan, handmade shoes, and a Porsche? Yeah, this guy was one of them. Didn't take me long to figure out why Mr Rich Britches was slumming at PF instead of working out at home in his custom designed gym with his imported personal trainer/masseuse, Antonio, whose shaky immigration status kept him as Mr Big's indentured servant instead of him running off to the city to have his turn as Madonna's boy toy of the month. Nope, no Antonio today, Mr Britches was trolling for girls.

So the awesomely toned young woman finishes her leg lifts and goes over to do some standing bicep curls near where Mr Britches is pretending to workout. She's doing fine when Mr Wonderful decides to appoint himself her workout mentor and he oozes over to criticize her form and 'advise' her on how to do it 'correctly'. She startled to be interrupted but listened politely (as women are conditioned to do) and then nodding her insincere thanks she began working out again. Whereupon Mr Sleaze revealed his intentions quite clearly by grabbing her arm and showing her how to do it his way. It was at this point I almost jumped up and pried him off her. But lovely young woman did fine on her own. She dropped the cable handle immediately, yanked her arm out of his creepy clutch, sidestepped away from that elderly self-important octopus and told him to get lost.

I let out a silent yell of pleased solidarity and had to stop working out myself as I laughed myself into tears. Mr Britches was trying to recapture his outsized dignity when he turned and saw that I'd seen the whole thing go down. He stalked away all wounded vanity and ruffled pride after I tipped him a sarcastic salute and smirked. Message received loud and clear. "Bugger off, Manicure Man."

Score one for the sisters. ~LA

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