Sometimes I swear my life should be a TV show. If only to prove to people my utter stupidity. For all the land to see.
So remember how I’m going to the gym now? The gym that sucks and apparently doesn’t have locker rooms? Well, they do. As I figured the other day, they are upstairs. All 2,673 stairs. Or at least that’s what it feels like to climb them after working out.
Anyway, so there are signs all over not to leave personal items in your car in the parking lot because they’ve had some incidents or something. Well, since I didn’t see any lockers, I had been keeping all my shit in my trunk. I mean, steal my underwear and bra inside the gym if you’d like. But I kind of need my wallet and keys.
So tonight I ventured up the 18 flights of stairs to take a look-see at what exactly was upstairs. There are two studios for classes. And then there are two doors. Identical doors. With no markings on them. Nor any signs. Two black doors with the same silver circle on it. The exact same doors. Are your getting it? They are the SAME.
I felt like I was on a fucking game show. (Which normally? Good thing.) Which door to choose? Door number one and I win a new car! Door number two and I may just see a naked, sweaty man changing out of his jock strap. (Which, well let’s face it. I’ve been in an NFL locker room. I’ve seen it all.)
Well, I picked the WRONG door. WRONG! I wasn’t sure when I walked in. Because no one was in there. There was a hair dryer. But this is Lincoln Park. I’m sure there are plenty of men at that gym that might use a hair dryer.
My solution? Instead of asking? I decided to look in the lockers to see if things looked like guys or girls stuff. Seriously. Like I was expecting to see high heels and a dress, or a suit and tie. (I did see some Prada shoes, but they did not scream MEN’S SHOES!) This proved fruitless, obviously, and I finally had to leave.
When I walked out the door, I ran into a guy who works at the gym. Who just started laughing. (That was my first clue that I, indeed, had been in the wrong locker room.) When I went into the women’s locker room finally, I realized that the walls were painted pink in here. Blue in the other.
You can’t make this shit up.
Thankfully (or maybe not) there were no naked men or anything. I don’t need any more reasons to not go to the gym.
But hello, gym? SIGNS WOULD BE NICE!
Speaking of the gym, I am always amazed at people who pick up people at gyms. (No, I don’t know any of these people. I hear stories.) Who are these people? How does this happen? I admit, there are quite a few boys I’ve seen in my three days at this gym that I wouldn’t mind making out with, but what the fuck? I’m at the gym. And I don’t want to be there. At. All. And my red, sweaty face should be the first clue. That and the furrowed brow.
Although, I suppose if you do meet someone at the gym, your stock can only go up. Because if you think I’m cute after working out, it only gets better. I usually clean up good. And actually smile.