That's So Lame

It was a dark and rainy night -- not so good for jogging on the trails, although that's what we did. Mercifully, the rain let up while we were running.

Afterwards we went into the Y to cool down and stretch. She road on a stationary cycle, which was where she was when I returned. I tapped her on the shoulder and she gave the bike to the next refugee from the rain who was waiting in line.

We went to the weight room and stretched. She rolled around on an exercise ball, and I just sat there stretching my hamstrings, amazed at how tight you get when you don't run.

The weight room was just as full as the cycling room. There were teenagers talking with animated faces. There were men lifting with stern faces of intense concentration. There were woman looking as if they just wanted to be left alone. And there were the two of us.

She was rolling around on the ball, sometimes looking like she was working hard, sometimes looking like a kid. I was ogling her long, lean legs and winking at her as she rolled around.

That's so lame! came a voice from next to us.

We looked up with startled expressions. A slender trixie of a woman stepped down from the pull-up machine, her exercise pants riding very low on her hips, her blue midriff top drawing eyeballs to her flat stomach and her muscular arms. She was looking straight at us.

What? I asked.

That's so lame. I only did four pull-ups. When I was in elementary school I could do more than that!

We smiled and nodded agreeably. She turned and walked to the next machine, revealing some sort of planetary configuration of a tattoo on the small of her back, disappearing into the waist of her low-cut pants.

Elementary school! Trudy whispered.

I thought to myself, I wish I could remember elementary school.

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