This is hard work, people.

So pretty much all I do all day is work [which involves real actual work and blogging and reading the news], go to the gym, and invariably I go out to dinner with someone at night.

Needless to say, there isn’t much fodder for this blog. I should start making things up, I guess.

But first, let’s start with small anecdotes I’ve been meaning to share:

Yesterday, on a crosstown bus, a fairly attractive man smiles at me. I’m on the phone, so I manage a half smile. [On a side note, having been speaking to someone new these last couple weeks really changes things. Normally, my interest would be piqued. I mean, this person on the bus was attractive and tall. Which, you know, how often does that happen in NY? NEVER. Why? Because the average height of the men here is 5 foot 7. But WHY?! Because this city is made for short, thin people. Hence, also the lack of overly obese people. Well, that is, until you step into my neighborhood. Moving on: The man was cute and tall.] I give up my seat to a pregnant woman and end up standing next to Tall Cute Man [TCM]. He has nice arms with an interesting tattoo. And, honestly, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about how nice it would feel to be wrapped up in them. I was thinking, Weird tattoo and Huh, dude must work out. This is how I know I really like this guy I’m speaking to– no matter how nice the arms of another man, I’m not imagining what they feel like. [Let's just right now acknowledge that those last sentences were probably a bit too much information about the not so subtle workings of my mind when I see a good set of triceps. Or how easily I'm taken in by that kind of thing. Take the moment. Okay, great. Onward.] Periodically, TCM looks over and smiles at me. I am, although noticing this, pretending as if my phone is my world. I am texting like it’s my job. This goes on for a few avenues which, given that the UN General Assembly is all up in town and shutting down various streets in midtown and essentially ruining my life, takes the better part of twenty minutes. At the end of it, he gets off at 7th avenue but not before leaning in semi-closely and saying, in a completely matter-of-fact, not at all creepy way, “You smell really nice.” My brows knit themselves together, I give a tight smile, and say, completely deadpan, “I try.” TCM smiles again. And all I can think is, “It’s a good thing you’re tall and cute because otherwise you’d just be some total random sniffer who luckily has a non-creepy voice or else you probably would have been stabbed with a tube of lip gloss by now.” At that image in my mind, I give a genuine smile, which TCM takes for whatever it is in his mind and steps off the bus.

The day before, I’m at the gym, running, sans headphones. It’s my new thing. I don’t like having the beat of my strides dictated by whatever random ATL-style song is playing on the club tvs, and watching the Ellen Degeneres show is, not surprisingly, fairly unmotivating when it comes to running. That, and my iPod is officially dead, though I’ve been reluctant to throw it away since it was, in some form, a gift from my sister and is that bright spring green that those ancient iPod minis used to be. Not this dumb aquamarine shit of the current variety.
Anyway. So I’m running, focused on my breathing and the way my feet are hitting the treadmill belt. The way our gym is situated, all of the treadmills are downstairs with all of the heavy-duty machoism-on-display weight machines. And I’m fine with the grunting. Grunt away. If that’s going to prevent the blood vessel in your eye/forehead/forearm from exploding, then by all means. I’d rather put up with the grunting than with blood splattered all over my gym clothes, and the subsequent weight I will gain from post-trauma gym avoidance and exercise-aversion.
So, some guy is wanting to do bench presses. Big ones. Because he has big swinging balls. Or at least, he must if he’s bench pressing three times my weight. I’m just conjecturing right now. He asks this other man to spot him. Lord only knows what Benching Man [BM] was thinking asking Inhumanly Buff Man in Neon Blue Teeny Tiny Tank Top [IBMNBTTTTTTTTTT] to spot him. Regardless, I see all of this from my perch on my treadmill. So BM lies down and IBMNBTTTT gets up near his head at the top of the bench. BM shoves up with all of his might. And then IBMNBTTTT yells out, loud and long, “ONE!” which sounds more like “WUUUUUUUUUUUHN”. BM is a bit discombobulated. The man running on the treadmill in front of me who has his back to this spectable nearly falls off.
This continues. “TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW.”
“THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.” By this point, BM must be more distracted than not because now IBMNBTTT is saying “FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW. PUSH IT! PUSH IT!” and with each “PUSH IT” is hip-thrusting with such extreme gusto that BM must be terrified that the dude is about to skull-fuck him.

I am tittering in the back.
“FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—HEY! PUSH IT! PUSH IT!”
Everyone in the weights area is watching now. The man on the treadmill in front of me has stopped completely and might as well be shoveling popcorn in his mouth.
“SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX. PUSH IT! PUSH IT!” More hip thrusting. BM is red with the strain of the weights and the moment.
“SEHHHHHHH VUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHN. COME ON YOU PUSSY! PUSH IT! PUSH IT!” And at this, I slam my hand down on the stop button and laugh openly, loudly. BM can’t take it. Once he sets the bar down again, he quietly says to IBMNBTTTT, “Hey man, do you think you can tone it down?” To which, IBMNBTTT bends down, puts his face real close to BM and screams at the top of his militant voice, “WHAT, SON?! Stop being such a FUCKING pussy and FINISH!! THIS!! SET!!”