Today, I got stuck under a bathroom door.
I went to the gym today (19 days ‘til a size 2…almost there!), and SURPRISE! Disaster ensued. I am going to Sears to purchase a Shake Weight, a Thigh Master, and a Hula Chair so that I can pursue my fitness goals in the privacy of my own home while watching my favorite movie of all time, Con Air, on a loop. Today’s disaster is the indirect result of my cheapness and cowardice.
When I entered the gym today, I was greeted by a sea of greasy, overly tanned, midget gorilla-juiceheads, as my fellow Long Islander Jenni “J-Woww” Farley would call them. I can tell you that their mid-sections and lats (yup, I know what a lat is-I might not have them, but I know what they are) were tanned as well, because they were all wearing those pointless manks that are torn from their arm-pits down to about two inches from the hem. Why? Seriously, why would you do that to your shirt? I’m sure Mr. Hardy did not intend for his sparkly, purple tiger to be torn in half and decapitated. Remind me to go into how I believe that Ed Hardy is just a pseudonym for an older, pissed off Lisa Frank. Ed Tiger. Lisa tiger.
Anyway, I was standing there, wondering why these guys were working out in aprons, when I realized that only about 13% of them were actually doing anything. In each little pod, there were about six “bros” standing around one guy who looked like he was having a seizure while lifting a 20-pound dumbbell. Uh-oh! Someone hasn’t been drinking their Ron-Ron juice! Tsk, tsk. WAIT A MINUTE! Why weren’t any of these people at work!? It was 2:13pm, how is every gross male in a 10-mile radius available for a leisurely, mid-afternoon lift? I might not know much about “conventional jobs”, but I am sure that no lunch break is at 2:13pm. And you all didn’t just get home from the night shift at the gas station, either. Yes, I was at the gym at 2:13pm, but that is neither here nor there. My job is being a house-daughter, and like every good house-daughter, I have to look good.
Because all of these creatures were loitering around the machines like they were tailgating at a Mets game (HA, the Mets), I decided to go into the nice, dark theater room to do my cardio. Usually, I get lucky and a nice Adam Sandler movie from the 90’s or early aughts is playing, but noooo. I walk in and see Angie’s big-ass, bony head wearing a wig that looks worse than mine. Great. Salt. Some CIA, espionage, government shit. I don’t understand that mess when I am fully minded and focused, and you want me to try to follow that story while I am deliriously trying to not fall off of a treadmill? GIMME SOME NEVER BEEN KISSED UP IN THIS BITCH! Whatever, that’s why I had my headphones. I did my thing, got into a groove, and finished my hour. Yesssss. One mile in an hour! I must be butter cuz I’m on a roll. Mmmmm, butter. I stumble off the machine, wipe it down because I’m considerate like that, and I go to walk out of the theater and who is right there? “Jen” the trainer! Gadzoinks!
Okay, so I finished my training sessions with “Jen” and decided not to renew them. When we were working together, she would show me what to do once, and then just stand there blabbing about her boyfriend issues, her Rav 4 issues (the issue being that she owns a Rav 4, I'm assuming), and her other dumb Commack issues. Ugh, I wish more of you readers lived on Long Island so that you would know why Commack is never worth talking about. Have you BEEN to that movie theater? I’m pretty sure I saw a 6-year-old stab an 8 year-old in the parking lot after Ratatouille. Back to “Jen”. We would do the same exact exercises every time, so I decided I didn’t need to keep paying her $75 an hour. Do you know how many Pizza Hut stuffed crust piz…- er, I mean salads I could buy with $75? I didn’t really do anything wrong by not renewing our sessions, but I still felt guilty. Why was she there, anyway? She told me that she’s done with all of her sessions by noon every Tuesday. I remember because she told me that right after she told me about how she went to an auto-show in the mall parking lot that weekend and her boyfriend got drunk and dumped beer on a car and got them kicked out.
My solution was to hide out in the theater room until she left. The 90 year-old she was working with didn’t seem like she had much more in her. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to fake a sprained pinky in high school so I could go see Joh* Th* Traine* (letters are missing for discretion) in the training room, I was wrong. That old bat was powerlifting like a fucking champ. She could have showed those mank wearers a thing or two. AN HOUR AND 31 MINUTES LATER, “Jen” finally left. What’s the only thing worse than watching and not understanding a thing in Salt once? Watching and not understanding a thing in Salt twice. By the time I was done working out, I really thought I was gonna die. Two+ hours of cardio? Do I LOOK Ethiopian? The gym had still not cleared out, and the path to the parking lot was packed, so I decided to take a breather in the bathroom. Let a girl wheeze in private. I went into a stall, huffing and puffing like I was a Catholic school girl giving birth to her secret baby in the toilet before scampering off to algebra. After I began a normal breathing regimen, I went to leave, and the lock wouldn’t turn. Strange. I knew I was a tad weak, but come on. I try it again, and the lock would not turn! I try some more, and realize this thing isn’t budging. No one was around, and I even tried to call the front desk from my cell, but I had no service. AT+T, you dumb bitch. I only had one solution. Shimmy my sweaty ass under the door.
I have never been good at estimating sizes or distances or anything like that, but I thought I could SURELY fit under the door with ease. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to “fall” and fake a sprained ankle to get the attention of a guy walking by (C-Brad, I love you!), I was wrong. Have you ever seen those fishing shows where someone catches a huge swordfish and it flops around on deck like its on a mission? Remember in Jaws when Bruce (the name of the shark, duh) gets stuck in the boat and thrashes it around like it is a piece of paper? Yeah, you know where I’m going with this. After about 23 seconds, WHICH IS A LONG TIME TO BE WEDGED UNDER A DOOR LIKE A HUMAN DOOR STOP, I was thinking about typing a goodbye note on my iPhone for my family to read after they found my lifeless body stuck under a bathroom stall door. But like the guy who cut off his arm when he was stuck in the rocks, I didn’t give up. I did one more wiggle, and I was out. Free at last, free at last.
I wish that I could tell you all that this whole experience was rare, and that this was NOT a normal day in my life, but I love you all too much to lie. Tomorrow, I think I might just do some jumping jacks in my living room.