I get a lot of interesting e-mail from this website. Often it’s people trying to sell me various enhancement products for appendages I don’t even possess. Occasionally it is someone writing to correct me or further explain something to me, which I actually really do appreciate. Rarely, ’cause most of you know better by now, some sweet misguided soul writes to me for advice. Being completely unqualified to give advice in any area (You’ve read my blog right? It’s basically 12 months of fitness misadventures. The most frequent comment I get is some variation of “I told you so.”) I still yearn to be Dear Prudie. Or at least Dear Abby. So when a reader I’ll call Chris* instant messaged me a question of a personal AND fitness nature, I had to jump on it. Fortunately Chris only gave me the barest amount of detail on his problem, so I have taken the liberty of making up some back story, dialog, and other sundries. Feel free to chime in with your advice in the comments!
She Says: I Hate Your Stinkin’ Gym
I met Chris several years ago when he was dancing at the male topless club I’m So Excited and I Can Hide It (charlotte’s note: that’s for you MizFit). At first it was hard to tell if he was the athletic sort because while he took the “topless” part of his job seriously, he was wearing faux-fur lined snow pants. With suspenders. And a belt. (It was a family establishment.) He won my heart though with his creative interpretation of the song “Yellow Ledbetter” by Pearl Jam. You can actually hear him sing it here. Who wouldn’t love that, right? Anyhow, long story short, we fell in love, got engaged, moved in together and two sets of triplets. And then we finally decided we were ready for The Next Step: we joined a gym together. It was a huge risk. I mean we’re both a little gun-shy when it comes to commitment but we love getting sweaty together in public places so we went for it.
We were all on track for rainbows and kittens for the rest of our lives except for one thing: Chris’ gym sucks. I mean it really does. It’s small and old and the soap dispenser in the girl’s locker room has leaked so much that it’s made a stalagmite on the moldy tile floor. If I wanted to spelunk, I would have moved in with Batman. Anyhow, a new gym opened up not too far away and it’s awesome. I didn’t tell Chris this but I went in the locker room there and didn’t see a single woman using her feminine hygiene products in an unhygienic manner. It rocked unicorns, is what I’m saying. All we have to do is pay a few hundred to break our current contract and we’re golden like retriever puppies. But for some reason Chris loves his Ode To Cholera and refuses to change. Working out together is a key part of our relationship. The gym is where we trade witty one-liners across the weight floor and drink out of the same water bottle (camelbak totally makes one with two straws!!) on the treadmill. It’s our “us time.” Help?
He Says: Gyms Are Supposed To Stink
Let’s get one thing straight – I don’t love my gym. Trina is right, the place stinks. But gyms are supposed to stink! People go there to exude bodily fluids! If a gym smells like roses, I immediately get suspicious. It means that instead of using that $2.65 to upgrade their iron (that stuff’s only got a half life of 480 years you know) they are buying fancy schmancy air fresheners. And as to her claim of a soap stalagmite, which I’ve only seen in my imagination because I am so not one of those pervy guys who checks out the ladies room when nobody else is around to see if they really do have 4 whole stalls while we only have 1, really that’s pretty cool. In fact, I consider it a selling point! I remember my parents taking me to see some of those as a kid and we actually had to buy a ticket to get into that musty, cold, smelly cave and see the drippy things. At our gym it’s a member perk!
So, no, I don’t love my gym. What I love is my hard-earned cash. Trina doesn’t get this, she never had to work at a male topless club and endure all the hazing and cat calls and painful games of “odd or even” with my chest hair! I don’t care how simple my gym is. It has weights and some cardio machines and that’s all I really need. I’m not breaking my contract for mahogany lockers and a flat screen. Besides, my gym has perks. We have real imported bottled water. Hydration kicks unicorns butts, I always say.
But I’ll miss her if she goes. She’s so cute when she squeaks one out on the elliptical and pretends it was me. Are we doomed to live separate gym lives or is there some way to reconcile our differences?
The Answer to Life, The Universe and Everything
Um, 42. You miss the memo on that one?
So Chris likes his old gym, the one he frequented before Trina came into his life and kettle-belled the bachelor out of him. But Trina would rather go to a new place, one they could make their own together. On one hand, Chris is frugal. On the other hand, a girl deserves modern cardio facilities. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Or compromise. Or caterwaul. Or cake walk. What I’m trying to say is I suck at advice. Will this couple survive? Without Trina on the next tready will Chris fall prey to the overly aggressive transgendered gym bunny? Without Chris, will Trina remember to lock out her wrists on her clean and press or will her carpal tunnel syndrome come back with a vengeance? Help a fellow reader out – what should Chris do?
Disclaimer: 90% of this post is fabricated but his dilemma is real – can a relationship survive separate workouts? Let Chris know how you’ve made your workouts work for you and your significant other. He’ll thank the person with the best advice by getting a tattoo of your name with one letter on each finger. If you have a long name, he’ll get more fingers. He loves you that much.