Fashion Police

A paragon of fashion I am not, nor have I ever laid claim as such. This is my opening line because I need you to walk with me on this one. Close your eyes. Picture yourself walking into a brand new gym. A big, public gym, not your "gym room" at your house. This one has expansive ceilings 40 feet high and is equipped with all new flashy equipment that you almost don't want to sweat on. It has huge frontage that is all windows. It's a beautiful facility, really. Now, as you're walking in, you realize that everyone in there is there for what appears to be different reasons. I like playing this game when I'm at the gym because it passes the time quickly. The monotonous plodding on the Precor AMT is barely noticed when I'm busy watching the fashion show that opens like a movie before me. I step up onto the machine and begin the workout which is a perfect emulation of cross-country skiing. It's a killer machine that works abs, glutes, and many other muscles of Greek named origin. Last night the first guy I notice is a good one to start the evening with. White t-shirt under a gray muscle shirt all covering about 300 solid pounds of flesh. Gray shorts, and best of all- Teva shoes with, yes WITH, white golf socks. You know, not no-shows, the golf socks that just cover the ankle bone. What is it in these people that deludes them into thinking it's ok to go out in public wearing socks and sandals? Where did they get their information? I chuckled inside and quickly looked forward to the mesmerizing up and down, side to side motion of the nicely shaped female glutes on the machine in front of me. That only kept my attention for a few seconds until the obligatory weightlifter and his wife walked in. This guy is the stereotypical weightlifter. There to admire his work more than anything. Never are guys like him doing anything cardiovascular. Always pumping and preening in front of the myriad mirrors adorning the new facility. This guy has the perfect desirable V shaped back, a little paunch belying his age, and huge arms all tightly wrapped up in one of those under armor shirts and a weightlifter's belt. He's usually there for more than an hour doing his routine that resembles a peacock's mating dance without the plumes. He already has a spouse, but seems as if he's looking for the adulation and worship of the other, smaller, less equipped men in the gym. Some do seem to gravitate toward him for what seems like advice, and they usually resemble Barney Fife in physical stature. It's a strange world out there. Just stop to look around once in a while. Gotta go to work....