Brain Farts and other Gym Stories
Don't you just love it when your brain ceases all cognitive function? Rendering you so useless, you feel like breast implants at a gay bar? The term for this, I believe, is a brain fart. You may not actually be stupid, but you feel that way. And if you already are stupid, well, then you're really S.O.L.
This happened to me the other day when I lost my gym membership card. Or, at least I thought I did. I'll bring you into the story on Monday, when I approached the Cute Gym Girl Working the Counter Whom I Didn't Really Want to Embarrass Myself in Front of:
her: Hello, welcome to [gym name]
me: Hi. I'm an idiot. I lost my card. Is that going to be a problem?
her: You can get away with it today. Take a look around for it, and if you don't find it, it's a $5 charge for a new one.
me: OK, here's the thing, I've been looking everywhere for 2 days, and I haven't found it, so can I just give you the 5 bucks now?
her: Yeah sure (...takes down my name and info...). Now the first couple times you come in here, the card will say "Please Rescan," so just tell them it's a new card and you'll be fine.
(For some reason, I felt the need to swipe the card at this point)
computer: (in a loud, obnoxious computer voice) PLEASE RESCAN!
me: (turning red, embarrassed laugh) ... You mean like that?
her: (not amused) Yeah. Like that.
5 dollars poorer, I work out with a few buddies. After we're done, we're getting the stuff out of the locker and a gym membership card tumbles to the ground.
buddy: Hey, whose card is this?
me: God damn it.
The DHG
One of the most confusing mysteries of the cosmos is the Disproportionately Hot Girlfriend (DHG). I'm borrowing the term from the 'referee' series of Miller Lite commercials (which was a brilliant campaign, by the way, only to be trumped by the even more brilliant Bud Light 'cops arresting the refs' campaign that came out a month later).
At the gym, you're bound to see a few DHGs here and there, and it gets no less confusing each time. Here's a girl who obviously keeps herself in shape, and she's with some chimpanzee who hasn't yet learned how to walk with his arms by his side. I mean, Jane Goodall could be studying these guys. It makes absolutely no sense.
But Brad, you have a girlfriend, why does it matter?
It's the principle of the thing, damn it. Did they hand out a trophy to the Milwaukee Brewers last year? No, they didn't. Because they didn't deserve it. Just like Roid Rage Jones doesn't deserve the gym's token hot chick.
Yes, I'm aware that looks can be deceiving. She could very well fit into one or several of the five categories of crazy: Controlling, Hates-Your-Friends, Over Sensitive, Klingy (I know it's misspelled) and Ex-Obsessed (aka CHOKE - I'm patenting this, by the way). And if she's a CHOKE girl, obviously nobody wants a part of her.
But you can't know that from a glance, it's extremely difficult (although not impossible). And thus, the mystery of the DHG will continue forever...
posted by BJC @ 12:54 PM
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1 Comments:
The Artist Formerly Known as the Dream Girl was a DHG (see the picture I linked to on the HSR weekend update), which I (thankfully) have a history of attracting. I have dated at least four DHGs since 1996 (at which point, like a fine wine, I guess I finally came of age). There are many reasons DHGs end up with average guys like me, but the best reason was pointed out by a former DHG, a 6-foot former college soccer player with a smile that would set you back two months. She pointed out that many, many men were intimidated by a gorgeous 6-foot blond. Those who were not intimidated were either very secure with themselves, drunk or assholes. The former was far less recurrent than the latter two.
Or, to quote "Say Anything":
LOSER: "How did you get Dianne Court to go out with you."
JOHN CUSACK, KING OF GEEKY MEN WHO ASPIRE TO BE DESIRED: "I asked her."
LOSER: "Right on."
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