You can call me Grace, but that would be weird.


Something I am not, nor ever have been, is graceful.  Today I braved the gym.  Because the overindulgent holiday of Thanksgiving is coming, and I must exercise ferociously in advance of the upcoming calories.  I must eat, GUILT FREE!  I do something at the gym that clumsy people should never do… the stairmaster.  This is a torture device that a sadistic human created to make us act like we are going up an escalator and never quite reaching the next floor.  I’m sure that by this time in my life, I must have summitted Everest, at the very least.  Of course, I could never really summit Everest because there is hardly any oxygen and climbing icy peaks while reading People magazine is dangerous.

Watching people ascend nothing on the stairmaster is a fascinating pastime.  Some walk, step by laborious step, in obvious boredom, counting down the seconds until their turn is over.  They are the smart ones.  Then there are people who drape themselves over the arm supports and go as fast as they can, thereby defeating the purpose of the machine entirely.  Then there are the runners.  I am not a runner.  I am a tripper, but I manage to get the job done.  I sweat like a professional wrestler.  It’s a lovely experience all around, and after I survived my stint today, I was in serious need of a shower.

As I have previously mentioned in other blogs, my least favorite place on earth is a locker room.  Especially when I am one of the naked people in the locker room.  But there are times it must be done.  I got out of the shower and put on my clothes with the speed of a teenager, interrupted in a compromising position.  Alas, there was another lonesome sole dwelling in the locker room.  She was in the shower, so my modesty was still protected.  I was listening to Blondie on the radio.

Call me!  On the line, you can call me any, any time… call me!

I admit it, my post exercise euphoria was taking over.  I was probably not terribly alert as I grabbed my stuff from my locker, spinning around quickly to stuff it in my gym bag and skadoodle off to work.  I turned.  Hair was in my face.  Blondie was singing in my ears.  All of the sudden, my locker room buddy was right smack in my path.

And there were boobs.

I was off-balance.  I had such great momentum from my brief Blondie rock-out that I couldn’t stop.  I could see them coming.  I made some sort of weird animal groan.

I was falling.  Falling.  And my landing strip was someone else’s boobs.

I must say a little thank you at this point to the genetic gods who made me a bit taller than the average woman, or I would likely have done a face plant.  Into her chest.  Instead, I smacked into those cushions with my hands (one of which was holding my sweaty gym clothes).

“I’m SOOOOOO sorry, oh my god, I’m sorry, I just had such great forward momentum, I was off-balance, I’m soooooo sorry!”

“No problem,” said the topless one.  Really?  Because I would have been in therapy within the hour if it had been me!  As she continued to flit about the locker room, brushing her hair, putting on lotion, and never bothering to cover up her gonzagas, I was hit by a fit of the giggles.  I thought to myself, “why aren’t we both busting up and laughing about this?”  Instead, I covered my face with my towel and exploded in silent fits of laughter until I got a grip.  That grip lasted until I got to the parking lot, where I proceeded to lose it again.  All day I have been cracking myself up over the gracelessness that is me.  Thank you bubble, oh bubble of mine, for filling my life with such unbridled humor.

I guess I should wash my hands.


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