That's what she said

I’ve always been a fan of running in the summer rain, but when thunder and lightening show up to the party, I turn into a total scaredy cat.

So the other day, when the forecast called for an afternoon thunderstorm, I opted to employ my contingency plan: the elliptical.

I was about 20 minutes in to my plan B workout when…dun, dun, duunnnnnn…a mid-storm power outage killed the lights and all of the electronic exercise machines.

“Uhhhhhhh,” groaned the extremely tan, extremely wrinkly woman to my right.

Of course, this was the ONE time I didn’t have my iPod. So as the back-up generator kicked in and brought the machines—but not the lights or the TVs—back to life, I was forced to interact with Whiny Wendy.

Actually, I guess Whiny Juanita would be a more appropriate sarcastic nickname for this particular woman, since her accent would suggest some sort of Latino nationality.

“Oh jeeeeeeeeez,” she went on. “How loooooonggg is it gonna take them to feeeeeeex theeeees?”

I really wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so I tested out the “non-response method” for a few seconds. But I could feel her pleading eyes staring in my direction, and they weren’t going to move until I had supplied a satisfactory answer.

“Um, well, last time this happened I think it took, like, five minutes,” I finally replied.

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiivaah meeeeenutes? I neeeeeeedd my TeeeeeVeeeeeee when I workooouuuuutttt!”

“Me too,” I muttered under my breath.

I don’t know what it was about her voice that annoyed me so much, but I knew that if one more high pitched, overly annunciated word came out of her mouth, there was a 95 percent chance that I would involuntarily slap her in the face.

But at that very moment, I received a critical dose of comic relief from a pair of old-timers whose lifting workout had been interrupted by the blackout.

“Come on, Jerry, we don’t have all day. Martha’s aqua-cise class gets out in 20 minutes, and if she has to wait for me, I’ll be in big trouble,” said the first guy.

“Sorry Frank, I just can’t do it in the dark,” replied the second guy.

“That’s what she said!” quipped the first guy, with spot-on comedic timing.

I bit my lip as I tried in vain to suppress my giggles. But I just couldn’t help myself—it was the best-executed “that’s what she said” joke that I’d heard in a long time.

Guy number two, however, was not nearly as amused by his friend’s impeccable wit as I was.

“Frank, that was absolutely terrible,” he said in a tone that made him sound like a disappointed father. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

I almost piped up with something like, “Ah, relax Jerry. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

But before I could say anything, the lights came back on and the latest episode of Sports Center was blasting into my headphones. I guess the sound on the built-in TVs automatically resets to maximum volume following a power outage.

Of course, not even that could drown out Juanita’s excessively emotional reaction to the electrical reboot.

“Well, thaaaaaaaannnk God,” she declared. “Eeeeett’s abouuuuuuuttt tiiiiimmee!”

Ay, Dios mio.

Inspiration part II: my nasal brainchild

So there I was, pounding out a seemingly endless treadmill workout with the world’s most fetid breather outputting a constant stream of hot, nasty stink approximately three feet to my left.

I tried in vain to distract myself from the foul odor I was forced to absorb with each inhalation. First, I cranked up the volume of my iPod and scrolled through my playlist in search of a tune that could carry me away from my miserable reality, if only for a few fleeting moments.

Somehow, listening to Kelly Clarkson belt out the lyrics, “Since you been gooonnnnnnnneee, I can breathe for the first time, I’m so moving ooonnnnnnnnn, yeaheeeeeeeyeahhhh,” just wasn’t as motivating as usual. (Come on, admit it—you love working out to Kelly Clarkson too.)

Using more force and energy than necessary, I dramatically ripped my headphone cord out of my iPod and shoved it into the plug-in for the built-in TV. My overly animated display of frustration did not affect my malodorous neighbor in the slightest. He was much too focused on an old episode of Gunsmoke that he had probably seen 26 times since it originally aired in 1964.

I furiously flipped through the channels in search of a program so fascinating that I would completely forget where I was and what I was smelling. You know, something like Cheaters or Sarah Palin’s Alaska.

I started with my old standby, the E! Channel: commercial. So I switched to my second favorite, TLC: commercial.

Growing increasingly angry and annoyed, I quickly moved through my list of choice cable networks: Food, Style, ESPN, Animal Planet—even The Weather Channel. And guess what I saw? Commercial, commercial, NASCAR, commercial, commercial.

Well, since rednecks wrecking cars—ahem, sorry, I mean “motor sports”—doesn’t really do it for me, I was forced to watch several minutes of television advertising.

I was in a very cynical mood, so every product I saw on the screen looked like the dumbest thing ever invented. I found myself thinking things like, “Tires? Who the crap buys tires? L-A-M-E!”

Then came an ad for a new DirecTV feature that allows viewers to pause their television programming in one room and resume watching it in a totally different room on a totally different TV. This service seemed to me, at first, totally ridiculous.

But as I rotated my head from Mr. Halitosis on my left, to the rows of empty treadmills on my right, to the partially completed distance on the display screen in front of me, I was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea for a more practical application of DirecTV technology.

What if I could pause my workout on my treadmill and resume running on a machine located several (dozen) feet away from Limburger-Cheese-Breath? I could call it DirecTM and market it to gyms and cardio equipment manufacturers all around the world! I could become a multi-jabillionaire and never have to work out next to anyone ever again because I’d have enough money to build my own private gym and stock it with as many treadmills as I wanted! And it would probably make me taller and tanner with less unwanted hair!

OK, sometimes my fantasies get out of hand when I’m suffering from the effects of excess oxygen consumption. But come on, look me dead in the eye and tell me you’ve never been in a situation where this might come in handy.

That’s what I thought. Contact me when you’re ready to invest.

Say Yes to the Stress

After a long day at the office—because, you know, I have one of those now—there is no better way to relieve stress than heading to the gym for a little hardcore fitness action.

But I have to say, evening gym-goers are hella-intimidating compared to the mid-morning retiree crowd that I typically ran into back in my days of extended unemployment.

Everyone has just gotten off work, and by the time they make it to the gym, they’re tired, angry, starving and stressed. Their patience is wearing thin, which is why they generally employ a “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” style of working out.

So when you rack the bench press after your final set, they will not tolerate the seconds-long break you take before finally standing up and stripping your weights.

Also, no matter what machine they happen to be on, you can bet they are using it as a substitute stress ball. In my highly professional and scientifically-sound opinion, at least 95% of all user-inflicted damage to gym equipment occurs between the hours of 5 and 9 p.m.

The other day, for instance, I saw some guy throw—not just drop, but actually launch in a forward projectile motion—a 60-pound free weight dumbbell. As it smacked the ground and sent a palpable shockwave through the rubberized flooring, the guilty exerciser—a thirty-something behemoth with a shaved head and a dark, perfectly-manicured goatee—yelled, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhggggggggrrrrruuuuuuhhhhhhhmmmmmm!!!!”

I was the only other person in the room, which made for an instantly awkward situation. I couldn’t just pretend like nothing happened. This guy was obviously under extreme emotional duress.

I thought about casually walking up to him and saying something like, “Rough day at the office, huh?”

Ultimately, I decided that when it comes to stress-ridden ogres with goatees, any form of social interaction could be a real gamble. Instead, I hit him with an emotionally neutral look that said, “If you want to chuck weights around the room, go right ahead. I totally understand where you’re coming from, and I will make no attempt to stop you because you are uncommonly large and brutish.”

The abuse of gym equipment is not limited to weight stations—cardio machines are equally at risk.

On this same occasion, there was a middle-aged woman power-walking on the treadmill directly in front of the elliptical machine I was using. I peered over her shoulder and saw that she was watching an episode of Say Yes to the Dress.

I don’t know if it was a particularly intense episode or if she had other things on her mind, but either way, she was walking the hell out of that poor treadmill. She had the front handle bar in a white-knuckled death grip as she violently swiveled her hips from side to side and stomped her feet against the belt with each hostile step.

At first, I was totally annoyed. I had my iPod turned up as loud as it could go without causing serious hearing impairment, and I could still hear her cross-trainers slapping the platform. Eventually, though, I was able to sync my breathing pattern with the rhythm of her unnecessarily heavy foot strikes.

Our symbiotic exercise relationship lasted over thirty minutes. At the end, we were both more fit and less stressed. As an added bonus, I’m pretty sure Jennifer from New Jersey ended up finding her dream wedding gown.

On your mark, get sweat, go

If you’re one of the five people who have been reading this blog regularly for the past few months—or one of the countless exercisers who have had the misfortune of using the treadmill next to mine—you know that I have a severe sweating problem.

I’ve been unavoidably flecking my excess perspiration on fellow gym-goers for years—ever since I came to the conclusion, following extensive cost-benefit analysis, that running on a treadmill is a better winter exercise option than the outdoor alternative. Running on the icy roads of rural Montana simply isn’t worth the risk of broken bones and/or frostbite.

I was unaware, however, that there was an actual term for this phenomenon. That is, until I came across an interesting link on one of my new favorite blog sites, runningisfunny.com.

After reading this article, I realized that my current protocol for dealing with my overactive sweat glands is all wrong. My mantra of “absorb, absorb, absorb” should be replaced by “deflect, deflect, deflect.” I should forgo sweat towels, portable fans and SweatWow products; instead, I should use my natural talent for sweat production to my advantage. In short, I should adopt the highly effective gym tactic known as “defensive sweating.”

Over the years, I have inadvertently tested the effectiveness of this maneuver on several occasions. My conclusion? It works.

I have found it to be particularly effective when combined with an Accessory Sweat-Flecking Mechanism, or ASFM. Examples include loose jewelry, ponytails, headphone cords or mullets.

Using the force of kinetic energy transferred from the motion of the runner, such mechanisms propel sweat droplets much farther than they would travel on their own.

For example, in an incident that took place at my local athletic club approximately six weeks ago, I unknowingly utilized the tactic of defensive sweating to force another exerciser off of the treadmill adjacent to mine. I knew he had probably vacated the area to avoid being sprinkled with my perspiration, which was flying off my iPod cord faster than nonsensical words fly out of Charlie Sheen’s mouth. At the time, I was left feeling more embarrassed than triumphant.

After reading the article, though, I’ve begun to see defensive sweating as an outlet for competitive urges I can no longer satisfy with weekly competition. It really is the perfect contest for me—no one beats me at sweating. No one.

Plus, leaving the gym feeling like a sweaty winner rather than a sweaty freak has done wonders for my self-esteem.

Don't forget the lyrics

I am so over winter.

I know it is exasperatingly passé to complain about the weather, but everyone else is doing it, so I will too: spring, you have really outdone yourself this year. I’m used to surprise hailstorms here and there, but you usually tease me with a few warm, sunny days in between. This year, you’ve been stingy even with your mild 50-degree days, and for that, you suck. Seriously.

OK, now that I’ve gotten that out, I’m going to move on to something even more exasperating. Endless Winter 2011 has forced me to spend more time exercising inside than I would prefer, but excess elliptical training is not the main source of my frustration.

As any routine gym user will tell you, indoor exercise can get really, really boring. Electronic devices like built-in TVs and iPods are effective sources of entertainment—to a point. But there comes a time in every regular gym-goer’s life when he or she simply cannot fathom the thought of sweating through one more episode of Dancing With the Stars.

Somewhere over the course of my many years as a runner living in the Arctic tundra of western Montana, I developed something I like to call Silent Gym Karaoke. As you might surmise from the title, this activity involves soundlessly mouthing the words to your favorite songs as you listen to them on your personal music device.

My favorite variation of this game was inspired by the popular television program Don’t Forget the Lyrics! It involves randomly pressing the pause button on my iPod and trying to correctly complete the next verse of whatever song I’m listening to.

My second favorite variation of this game involves pretending that I’m Steven Tyler and the gym is the stage at an Aerosmith concert. This version allows for a good deal of creativity with facial expressions and microphone stand stunts.

Here’s the problem: based on observable reactions from my peers, I get the feeling that my rock star miming routine is annoying—possibly even frightening—to the general population of gym users.

The other day, for example, I was cruising along on the elliptical to the beat of one of my favorite songs, “Fergalicious.” It is common knowledge that I know every single word to every single Fergie song, so I was (silently, of course) rocking pretty dang hard—especially when I got to the line about being “up in the gym just working on my fitness.” (Because hello—I was actually up in the gym working on my fitness.)

I was having such a good time that it took me awhile to notice the grumpy old dude—er, ill-tempered elderly gentleman—glaring at me from across the room. He stood motionless next to a stationary bike with one hand resting on the seat, as if to say, “I cannot possibly continue with my planned leisurely bike ride/AARP The Magazine reading session until you have ceased behaving like a complete idiot.”

The moment I realized his menacing gaze was directed at me, I closed my mouth and cast my eyes downward in embarrassment. I stared blankly at my machine’s electronic screen for roughly three minutes—enough time for Mr. Blister to start his workout and become distracted by a riveting exposé on denture adhesive.

When I was sure he was sufficiently occupied, I cranked the volume on my iPod, skipped ahead to “Glamorous”—another Fergie fave—and karaoked like a champ. And no, I did not forget the lyrics.

Muffin-(s)top

This is a humor blog, and its main objective is to be funny. We’ve shared a lot of laughs over the weeks (at least I hope I’m not the only one laughing), but today we need to address something very serious. And that something is muffin-top.

Imagine yourself in the following scenario: you are getting ready to go work out at your local exercise facility. You haven’t been to the gym in, um, awhile, and as a result, those cute stretch pants you bought last January (you know, right after you made that New Year’s resolution to go to the gym every day) are a bit tighter than you remember.

You decide to wear them anyway because (1) you still feel guilty about how much you spent on them, (2) you’ve convinced yourself that the snugger fit is helping “suck things in” and “smooth things out,” and (3) the lateral accent stripe is the EXACT same shade of pink as your new sports bra. And your iPod Nano. And your Nike cross trainers.

So far, so good. Here’s where things go south: you stop in front of the mirror on your way out the door, giving yourself the once-over to make sure you’ve secured any fly-away hairs and removed any Cheeto residue from your face. You are so distracted by the task of eliminating any VPL (visible panty line) that you completely overlook the much more serious situation occurring in and around your waistband region.

You enter the cardio area smiling, shirtless and completely oblivious to the fact that everyone else in the room suddenly looks like they just watched a Nicholas Cage movie. (Hint: their wide-eyed, jaws-on-the-floor stares have nothing to do with your impeccable color-coordination.)

The disturbing thing is that this little series of unfortunate events, unlike a Nick Cage film, is a nonfiction story that unfolded before my very own eyes just a few short days ago.

Look, I’m not trying to launch a smear campaign against muffin-top. We’ve all been there at one point or another, whether we enjoyed one too many Saturday morning Krispy Kremes or just unintentionally shrunk our pants in the dryer.

I’m simply pointing out the fact that, hey, they make pink shirts too. I understand that to some people, matching workout apparel is of the utmost importance.

I would argue that my mental and emotional wellbeing is of equal or perhaps greater importance. Either way, I think a t-shirt is a pretty fair compromise to this issue.

So before you decide to bare your midriff for all the world to see, stop. Look. Assess. Learn to recognize the signs of muffin-top, and keep an emergency stockpile of wardrobe alternatives to use when necessary. Together, we can eliminate VMT (visible muffin-top) and help make gyms safer and more comfortable for exercisers everywhere.