Locker Room Business

I don't mean to show off (how many of my posts start like that?) but I've been hitting the gym pretty regularly lately. It's not really my thing, but I have to do something. The way I eat if I don't workout I might literally explode.

So anyway, I've been spending a fair amount of time at the gym, which means a fair amount of time in the gym locker room, and if you think I'm going to write about the nudity I see in there, well then you are RIGHT.

Growing up I was a competitive swimmer, so I have changed in public many, many times.  Public modesty, for me, is a science. I could change in and out of a one-piece, skintight unitard without exposing even a shade of aureola, believe-you-me. I'm obsessive about it, which doesn't make a lot of sense since I'm fairly certain no one is checking me out. I just don't want people to see my business, and I don't want to their business, okay?

Which brings me to my point: Why are some people SO naked? I mean, like, just super-naked like that?

The other day I saw this 50-something woman just chatting up her friend, totally buck naked. And her friend was sitting down, and she was really close to her, which resulted in some weird eye-level stuff. And the naked one was just like "Yeah so these are my breasts and this is my business and how was your day?" and I pretty much could not get over that.

I get dressed in the weird private booth that they provide for people with strict religious regulations, and I love it. I love it because I don't have to go all the weird maneuvers to stay covered, like holding my towel in my teeth while I put on my bra. It's much easier on my teeth, is what I'm saying.

So the question here is, how do people get to be so naked-comfy? How were they raised? Did their parents walk around naked all the time when they were growing up? Is that normal? My children have literally never seen me naked, and therefore they do think I have a penis. (They also think my boobs are my "tummy" and therefore I'm perpetually-pregnant, but I digress.) This may not be the best method, but at this point it would be pretty weird to be like "Hey kids, I just wanted to show you my naked body so you can see I don't have a penis" . . . so what's done is done I guess.

I should be clear that I don't begrudge these ladies their impressive self-esteem. I envy it, really. Just to walk around like "WHAT" and air-dry like Cuba Gooding Jr in Jerry McGuire? It sounds liberating.

But until I reach that point (never) I guess I will just be the mom with the penis.

Have a nice weekend.

The Stranger Who Shamed Me PART THREE

Hi how was your Thanksgiving I don't care let's get to the point.

I was shamed, once again, by a stranger. But this time it happened ON THANKSGIVING. Are you shocked? Are you throwing up in your respective mouths at the mere thought? You should be. Please do so now.

It all started when I went to the Lifetime Fitness Turkey Day 5K.

(For those of you keeping track, you will notice that each shaming incident has occurred while I am attempting to work out: the bike race, the parking lot, and now this. Conclusion: exercise is the worst.)

For as long as I can remember, my family's Thanksgiving has always involved a rigorous workout. When we were little, my mom would take us to the gym before it closed at 2PM. Now we go downtown with approximately 400,000 other people to run a frigid 3.2 miles in the street. Doesn't that sound so fun?

I know other people's families do stuff like sleep in, drink Bloody Mary's, and watch the parade in their pajamas, but not my family. We're just a little too great for that.

So ANYWAY, now that the family has grown, we have these "children" to worry about. We used to leave them at home during the race, but at this point there are too many, so we bring them along. This is of course a terrible idea. (Small children are not into 5K's.)

At the time of "the incident" (don't worry I have not completely forgotten my point) I was standing in a jam-packed lobby with two strollers waiting for my husband to pick up our race numbers. It was not a good situation. The strollers are large and unwieldy and they made it difficult for people to get past me. I think I said "sorry" 600 times. I knew how annoying I was being, but I had no choice -- I had to run the stupid 5K. Family traditions are the worst.

One brave man decided my apologies were not enough. He looked at me, looked at the strollers, and rolled his eyes. Then he gestured to them and said "This is really stupid."

And bam! The familiar chest-tightening and face-reddening of stranger-shaming. I was so mad. The only retort I could muster was "Thank you, sir; Happy Thanksgiving!" But get this, I didn't say it in a nice voice -- I said it in a jerky sarcastic voice. Win.

At that was it. My holiday was ruined. It's probably ruined forever, who knows.

 . . .

Rather than end on that depressing note, I will tell you what I am thankful for this year: You! You're reading this even when you are supposed to be doing other things, like parent or your job. That's so nice. Thanks.

Zoom-zoom-zoom.

Confession time. Since you guys are all intimate, close friends of mine, it is only natural that I share with you personal information via a blog post, right? Great! So here it is.

I like Zumba.

Seriously, I know this is a "jokey" blog, but that was really hard for me to admit. I like Zumba.

For those unfamiliar, "Zumba" is basically a modern version of this:

   

. . . except way cooler. It varies a lot from class to class, but my personal favorites are the classes that play pop music and use dance-club moves. You know, like the kind of moves you would see in the club, if you ever went to clubs, or knew where a club was located.

So anyway, I really like going to these hardcore booty-shaking Zumba classes, and that is fine, provided that no one I know ever sees me do it. 

When I zumba alone, I can pretend that I look really cool. I can pretend that my moves are attractive and I look good in my clearance-rack workout gear. And I actually do believe that sometimes, because aerobically-released endorphins are a real thing.

But if someone I knew were to actually see me zumbaing, the illusion would be ruined. I would have to face the harsh reality of my Irish-Catholic rhythms and extreme inflexibility. Not to mention it would be awkward and terrible for everyone involved.

When it comes down to it, I pretty much hate the idea of running into anyone I know while working out in any form. When I exercise, I am in a zone of gross, anti-social sweatiness. So friendly chit-chat is pretty much out of the question.

So you can imagine, you can just imagine, the absolute horror I felt when I was mid-zumba, gyrating to the beat, when I saw someone I knew in the class.

I was late, so I found a little spot toward the back and got right to it -- throwing my hands in the air as if I just did not care. It was then I noticed two women whispering behind me conspicuously. My immediate reaction was: why are these jerks talking about me when I'm just trying to get my groove on?

Of course then I thought, these women are not talking about me! Why am I so narcissistic? What is this, middle school? Needless to say, I felt a little stupid. So I ignored it went back to bumping and grinding.

Later, I turned around to get a sip from my water bottle and OH DEAR GOD IT WAS MY STUDENT.

My STUDENT was standing directly behind my wiggling-booty the whole time. She was the one whispering to her neighbor, who happened to be her mother, and my middle-school sixth sense of being whispered about was proven dead-on once again. 

So basically, at this point, my life was over and I was planning to go dig a large hole somewhere and live in it forever. I would bring my children with me and teach them to live off the hole, eating worms and minerals to stay alive while I taught them everything I know: grammar and musical theater.

But first I had to think of the least-weird way to deal with the apocalyptic situation before me. To turn around and leave would be obvious, and I'd have to walk directly around her to get to the door anyway. So I stayed. I tried to keep dancing, but everytime we were supposed to turn in a circle I just pretended to turn so I wouldn't acidentally face her. Let's just say it was not my best stuff.

When it was over I acted like I really needed a Kleenex from the front, so I went up there and pretended to blow my nose for like five minutes until she was gone. Then I went out the back, ran to my car, and screamed all the way home.

After some time I decided that perhaps living the rest of my life in a hole was extreme, and that my children may benefit from things like sunlight, and math. So I did the next best thing and blocked the event from my mind. As I write this, I'm pretending it's just a funny "what if?" story, rather than the waking nightmare it actually is.

Thankfully, "the student" seems to be handling it the same way. I think she's convinced herself that it wasn't actually me, just someone who looked like me. Just a really good, awesome dancer who looks a lot like her English teacher. Besides, to out me would mean admitting she goes to the same Zumba class as her teacher -- and no middle-schooler is going to admit that.

Ever.



ZUMBA.

Someone needs a talking to.

A long time ago I wrote this joke:

Having a baby is like riding a bike; they both really hurt your crotch.

Eh? Whaddaya think? Pretty good, right?

I was thinking about that amazing joke because over the weekend I participated in a large-scale bike ride (it was NOT a race, so it's not a big deal that I came in last), and it was intense. I was on my bike for over three hours, peddling, alternately loving and hating life depending on the grade of the road.

The entire experience was actually great except for one moment. One small incident that irked me and is causing me to write a blog entry about it. I was CHASTISED.

There are few things in this world that I dislike more than getting in trouble. (It's a unique attribute, and I am special because of it.)

This particular dressing-down came from a complete stranger which is the WORST because it's so surprising. She was passing me on her bike (probably about the 5,000th person to do so during the ride) and as she went by, she yelled "Stay to the right if you're not passing!"

Until that point, I was happy, enjoying the scenery and singing the lyrics to "Moves Like Jagger" in my head. But that one comment completely shamed me into a guilty hate-spiral in which I felt stupid but also hated that lady so much. I mean it's not like I was weaving all over the place on a busy city street. I mean I don't think I was. I mean you can't prove it.

Have you ever been put in your place by a stranger? Why is it so awful? Is it just my Catholic guilt at work or does everyone feel this way?

I really think people should email me stories of getting in trouble with strangers at thelazystandup@gmail.com and then I will create a post with everyone's stories (anonymous or not, your choice). It would be very therapeutic for all of us.

You should do it.

Yes, you.

I have another story about a time a man actually got out of his car to criticize my parking. It was bad; I don't even want to tell you, but I will -- if you share some good ones with me. See? Motivation.

Can't wait to hear from you!

Why I hate President Lyndon B. Johnson

from smithsonianmag.com

I know a lot of people have a favorite president. Scratch that. I know a lot of nerds have a favorite president. But I have a least-favorite president, and that president is Lyndon B. Johnson.

First of all, what kind of name is Lyndon? A stupid kind, that’s what.

Second of all, he wasn’t even elected. So there.

Third of all, to the best of my Wikipedia-based knowledge, it was Lyndon B. Johnson who officially initiated the mandatory Presidential Fitness Test for all school-aged children. What an ass.

Prior to the Presidential Fitness Test, no one in my class knew I couldn’t do the sit-and-reach. It was private. That was my business. But then, because of some dumb president’s idea of fitness, I had to lean slightly forward in front of everyone while my gym teacher looked at me with disgust and wrote "-6 inches" on his uppity clipboard. And that was just the beginning.

The shuttle run? Are you kidding? Torturous. Trying to pick up those erasers and quickly run the other way was impossible; and for the record, I have yet to encounter another situation in my life where I’ve needed to do anything similar.

Then there were the pull-ups. Guess how many pull-ups I could do. Zero. I would just hang there until the teacher said I could get down. And even then my hands really hurt.

But the worst of all of these was the mile run.

I run now, by choice, multiple miles at a time. On rare occasions, I actually enjoy it. But in grade school, running a mile was an insurmountable feat. I would have anxiety dreams weeks in advance: the thirst, the side-aches, my classmates lapping me again and again. It was horrible. Twice a year these nightmares would come true. There was no escape … or so I thought.

When I was in 4^th grade, God Himself smiled down upon me and blessed me with a little condition called “Allergy-induced cough-asthma.” It was like having asthma, only more awesome.  Essentially, in the fall and spring (fitness-test season) I would start having coughing attacks when I exerted myself physically. It wasn’t a congested cough, it was like the sound of a dog barking. It sounded awful and was a little painful, but on the day we ran the mile, that cough was like a choir of angels singing sweet hymns in my lungs. Because to treat said coughing-attacks, I needed an inhaler. 

Inhalers are kryptonite to gym teachers. Children with inhalers are automatically exempt from any physical activity they do not wish to participate in. Sometimes it’s legitimate; sometimes it’s crap, but the gym teacher can’t argue. So to have that powerful tool in my possession was miraculous. When we jogged out to the field to run the mile, I would start barking and reach for my trusty puffer: Hey teach, maybe it would be best if I just picked dandelions with the other asthma kids today. Don't want to risk my health! 

It’s not that I don’t believe in physical fitness. I do, especially for children. But I am not sure this type of public testing is helping anyone, other than the kids who are already fit. You’re really thin and athletic? Here is a certificate! You’re not thin or athletic? No certificate for you. Aaaand done. 

Instead, how about training and support for the kids who don't pass? They could set goals for improvement; like, hey, next time let’s shoot for negative four on the sit-and-reach! Or, next time see if you do the shuttle run without crying! Yay, you did it!

Then again I haven’t been in gym class since 1997, so these changes may already be in place. But the fact remains that Lyndon B. Johnson is on my list.