That’s so Sweat of You

After a two week self-induced state of bed-rest I finally decided to venture to the gym on Monday. I know they missed me there based on the signs they crafted by hand and the thunderous applause that roared around the room as I entered.  I hadn’t been to the gym in over a month due to my Carmen San Diego-esque travels as of late. That, plus the time I spent laying in my bed wanting to cry of boredom, lead to a lengthy hiatus from my workout routine. I knew to take it slow so as not to throw myself right back into an injury zone. I mostly sat on the stationary bike and threw around a couple of dumbbells. Tuesday had the same agenda, although this time I hit up the gym in Horgen as I’m allowed to have my way with the eleven different locations scattered around Zürich. I pushed the pedals on the bike a bit, laid on the ground and engaged my abs, and finished my sad little routine with a visit to a few circuit training machines.

Here I am, sitting on an instrument designed to give me Hulk-like quads and the kind lady from the front desk approaches me. “Germangermangerman?” she asks, following the question with a surprisingly genuine smile. “Um, sprechen Sie englisch?” I reply, all American-like. “Ah, yes. Do you have a towel? For the seat? With the sweat?” WHAT?! I’m not even sweating! That was the whole point, not to exert myself to minimize injury. “Entschuldigung. Tut mir leid. Ich habe nicht towel.” Excuse me. I’m sorry. I don’t have a towel (yes, apparently I still couldn’t figure out the German word for towel). She smiles and says no problem as she scampers back to the desk to get me my own towel, with which I can cover the seat. I graciously accept my new accessory and continue to buff up. When she turned her back I couldn’t help but furrow my brow in puzzlement. An emoticon to describe my feelings would be: confused, insulted, and feeling like this woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about face. Maybe a bead or two of sweat escaped, but honestly, this is nothing compared to what I am capable of. Kind of reminds me of another time at the gym…

It was c-r-a-z-y hot, this day, and I couldn’t stand the thought of putting on a t-shirt to hit the gym (which doesn’t have air conditioning thankyouverymuch). I have seen other women doin’ their thang with just a tank top on, so I thought, Be bold. Join the other women who shun the t-shirt rule. Picture me, fresh from the eliptical, lifting weights and sculpting my guns. I’m thinking to myself, Look at me breaking the rules. Good thing no one cares I’m a wild sweat monster and am sweating all over the place. Just as the words begin floating around my brain I see an employee headed my way, t-shirt clutched in his fist. With daggers in his eye and a smile that looks like it’s physically hurting him, he asks me to put a shirt on. Apparently, I was exposing too much flesh (Too Hot for TV!) and purposefully rubbing my sweat on all the machines. I donned the men’s large t-shirt and turned back to my biznass that was the dumbbells. I glance in the mirror and check a view of my front side. The shirt reads “Top of the World,” on which was the last place I was feeling. I had just been humiliated in front of all my cool, popular, chic, and dry Swiss friends. I promise I’m not a (total) weirdo, I just have a high metabolism! From now on I’m thinking about just wearing a terry cloth robe to workout and saving all of us the trouble.


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