Call me an old-fashioned girl, but I was under the impression that you go to the gym to sweat profusely, turn several colors and curse under your breathe in hopes of eventually looking better when you are away from the gym.
I assume the reason they call basic gymwear "sweats" is because they should be closely tied to that activity. I wear mine baggy as an act of kindness to others.
I know that when I constrain my usually forgiving bob into a tight-to-my-head pony( more like rat)tail I will look like a bowling ball with a slightly elongated thumbhole at my mouth.
It isn't pretty, but I labored under the misconception that utiliatarian was OK.
I walked into the the locker room yesterday to see a leotarded lass digging deeply into a mountainous makeup bag on the vanity. Picture Julie Newmar as the Catwoman, without the mask.
To say our dual reflections presented a startling contrast is to say the Clinton book might run a little long. She looked startled and rustled deeper in her back, presenting me with a tube of mascara.
"This is tote-tal-lee waterproof," she said speaking slowly and smiling broadly as if introducing an isolated tribal warrior to a lap top computer.
"It can really open up your eyes," she added, apparently going for her "Aid and Assistance to the Pathetic" merit badge.
I politely explained I had makeup at home. She looked amazed.
Thus enlightened, I looked around the gym with new (still unadorned) eyes from the perch of the treadmill. Where I had previously concentrated on the television monitors and my own misery, I now saw narcissm on parade.
There was the fifty-something, bronzed god still wearing his wide weight belt cinched tightly around his non-existent waist as he wandered between conversations... just in case you missed the fact that his shoulders were at least three times the width of his waist. Each time he bent over I feared he would snap.
On the lat machine, a pageant princess in pearlescent Spandex paused at the end of each rep to coquettishly flick her lacquered hair and scan the room like a NORAD radar tower.
Arms and legs moved in unison on the runner next to me, but her perfectly pert breasts (cleavage starting just below her chin) remained dual, immobile sentries. A further scan of the room confirmed that the various plastic surgeons advertising on the locker room bulleting board had indeed found their market.
I vowed right then and there it was time for a change. As God is my witness, once I lose the first 20 pounds -- I'm going to try that mascara.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs