I was peacefully going along, free of any “gym-timidation” (whatever that means). Step after step on the treadmill, watching both political ads and reading a business book—the typical nerd. I was blissfully unaware of your presence, when suddenly, you and your boy-toy arrived. You were wearing a loud pink neon tank that could be seen from outer space, which made my at my jersey shirt and yoga pants look grossly inadequate. Your hair was somehow completely undisturbed in a perfect pony tail. The aromatic pleasure you decided to give us all by applying about a gallon of perfume before you stepped foot on a treadmill, was so wonderful—they really should have made you queen. You set your IPod to the proper settings and flashed around your fake nails in the air, as you pretended to fix your bra strap.
Eventually, after being a bit miffed, I started to disengage from you, neon tank top girl, and focus on my workout, which just happened to be stellar, despite my lack of swag. As my hair fell out from my not-so-perfect-bun, I picked up the pace… Ehh, I can handle 4.4 speed on the treadmill, who can’t? As I began my run, I notice you decided to amp up your game, yet again. You began pushing the incline up and the speed, you go-getter-you. I realize every time I begin to change a setting, so do you. Wonderful. Just as I think things can’t really get more heavenly then they are, your beefy man toy comes over for a nice butt grab and some moral support. How do we mere mortal women do it without our men coming over for some sexy cheerleading?
Neon tank top girl, you really are something. I think one day, I might even want to be more like you. Your fashion and flare at the gym was fascinating and I admire your competiveness to try and outrun me. Maybe one day, I’ll get a neon tank top and we can be twins… haha!
Until next time– neon tank top girl.