Workin' out

Despite immense soreness from a very long dance rehearsal yesterday, I made it to the gym today. I walked in, did some lifting, and as I went to the ab bench thing (the official, technical term, I'm sure) I saw something so horrifying, so off-putting, I almost couldn't do the two hundred crunches I needed to round out my day.

I saw some guy's junk. Right there, three ab benches away from me. Some random guy's junk, just out there for the world to gaze upon. It was bad enough that his shorts were shorter than something out of Studio 54 circa 1978, but as he was doing his ab crunches, his legs were bent and splayed open like a sweaty crab.

I did my crunches, trying to shake the disgusting image that had just been seared into my retinas, but I couldn't. Even after another hour of cardio, I couldn't stop thinking, "But I saw his juunnk." How could he not know this? What would possess him to neglect wearing a pair of tightie-whities under his John Stockton shorts? More importantly, why did I have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Now is the time I step up on the soapbox: If there is nothing else this blog will influence, I hope that it might change the mind of even one person when choosing gym clothes. I hope that they might realize that nobody wants to see their sweaty junk-- nobody wants it to unexpectedly become part of their Sunday afternoon workout.