Gym's Are For Getting Buff - Not Being IN the Buff

I was totes out of commission on Saturday. I guess that’s what a sweet tea vodka/pink champagne/Brooklyn lager combo will do to ya.

So I was pretty much holed up all day watching “16 and Pregnant” (obsessed). I felt so guilty, so remorseful, that I made SURE I was up and at ‘em Sunday morning. Like, 10am up and at ‘em. UnHEARD of in this city.

After a lovely brunch with Olivia, I beat it on over to my gym.
But I wasn’t just “going to the gym.” I was going to sit poolside on the breezy, beautiful rooftop of Printing House. And boy was it fantabulous. (I give you full permission to haterate.)

I spent my day resting, reading, and relaxing in the cool, cool summer breeze. Took a couple of dips in the pool. Then decided that I should perhaps go for a stroll on the ole treadmill.
With a grin plastered on my face (how could I not be smiling after such a gorgeous afternoon!) I walked on into the women’s locker room.

Then – THEN – in my buoyant, rapturous, smiling state, with a spring in my step – I nearly rammed smack into a buck naked, saggy old lady.

Seriously. I don’t understand it!!!!!!! Why do people have no shame? No shame whatsoever.

I’ve never seen such a group of immodest people. They’ve never even heard the word. They don’t even know what it means.
Perhaps I’m a tad overly self-conscious. I mean, sometimes I go into the bathroom to change. If my towel slips the wrong way after I’ve taken a shower my heart drops. Literally, drops. And I start sweating (thankfully not enough to need a re-shower...but still).

I certainly ain’t saying I’m any great shakes. But my 26-year-old bod looks a tad different than a 40, 50, or 60-something with all that sag and more rolls than a Shar-Pei.

Yet it’s me, not them, who is über bashful. They have no problem whatsoever walking around in the buff.

And it’s not like, Oh let me just drop tow (towel not trou! hahah) while I put my panties on.

Oh no. It’s more like, Oh let me stand here naked while I slab lotion all over my wrinkles and rolls and boobs and butt; while I blow-dry my hair (oh GOD the bending over, kill me now!); while I put on my makeup; while I TALK ON THE PHONE.

It seriously blindsides me. Like peripheral vision vomit. Like eyesight pollution. Like toxic wasteland scenery. Like a horrific horror flick. Like shit yo, if I see one more naked booty I’m going to SCREAAAAAAAAAM.
Kudos to them, honestly. But in what world do they think it’s OK to parade around interminably in their birthday suit whilst fellow gym-goers have to endure it?

All I ever want is to ellipticize in peace. The gym should be a place of relaxation, not refluxation.

I like me some buns, sure. But they’re cinnamon flavored and gooey and covered in frosting. Dunkin’s comes after the gym, not at the gym.
So come on ladies, keep those buns covered!

To steal a line from Lily: “It’s not fair and it’s really not OK, it’s really not OK, it’s really NOT OK!”