fail… fail…FAIL!!!

Normally I don’t go ahead and write two posts in a row. I usually let the previous post marinate in the blogosphere for a couple of days before I proceed to my next rant, but this one is extra special. And I know I am running FAIL into the ground but dammit, the shoe really fits.

Anyway, I just got back from my spinning class after a week-long hiatus. I had forgotten how the gym can be nothing more than a glorified meat-market that  with weight machines and scantily clad people in workout gear in place of scantily clad people with cocktails. The gym is famous for being the spot where you go to get picked-up or pick-up. Whatever the case, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid the holla-back fools on the prowl there…until now.

Enter Joe Schmo ( I can’t remember his real name), who is always in the front row of the spin class and spends most of his time scoping out all the ladies in the front row of the spin classes. If Rocky Balboa had a Greek accent, he would look like this dude. Don’t get me wrong, he’s actually good looking and has a nice build but he rocks the Doofus vibe like it is going out of style (damn, I’m mean. And I wonder why I am single). But I’m saying… I’m going to the gym to relax and get in the zone, not get hit on.

The week before, Joe introduced himself as I hopped on a bike next to him and proceeded to ogle me as I tried to adjust the seat accordingly. The Sweet Minty Lord was truly smiling down on me that day, because that bike wasn’t working and I had to switch seats, leaving Joe to bother another hapless regular. A few days later, I saw his ass again when I came in and he congratulated me on being so consistent on my spinning and added in a loud voice, “Let’s keep it up!”

Right.

So today, after the spin class, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Joe leave before the cool-down finished and headed up the stairs. But alas, I was not able to escape because I had the fortune of running into his ass on my way out the door and was subjected to his torture conversation.

You know what it’s like when you’re talking on a phone with someone and there’s like a ten-second delay between responses? (this seems especially true with Verizon on certain days of the week, when the planets and the moon seem to fall out of alignment) Well, that’s basically how the conversation went.

Joe: “Hey!”

Me: “Oh…hi. How are you?”

Ten second delay coupled with look of complete befuddlement

Joe: “So, what’s up? Where have you been?”

Me: “Oh, sick with allergies and stuff.”

Another ten seconds pass along with lingering confused stare

Joe: “So every class, you pick the same bike, over and over. Why? What is it with you and this bike?”

Stare some more.

I have a better question, what is it with you and this oof-doofus follywang tomfoolery? The conversation proceeds to drag on about this godforsaken bike and how important it is to tone abs, which is what he was about to do and I guess wanted to see if I wanted to join him. Surely if Jesus could turn water into wine, he could transform my waterbottle into a can of mace and end all my woes. Unfortunately my prayers went unanswered and the ext thing I know, Joe queries as to why I don’t go out on Friday and Saturday nights. Um, how do you know I’m not out on those nights? I’m going to hope that this freak ain’t standing in front of my living room window, but right around then, I could sense some invitation right around the corner and the words, “Abort! Abort! Abort!” suddenly flashed across my eyes.

Me: “I’m sorry Joe, I need to get going. See you next class!”

As I quickly darted down the stairs, I made a mental note to bring my pimp hand to the next class so I can shut that sucker down. In the meantime, ladies and gentleman, I believe we have found our new FAILboat captain.

~ by J on May 18, 2008.