Like, stuff that should be reserved for the privacy of their own homes. Or a padded room. The Santa Monica 24 Hour Fitness already has a plethora of questionable inhabitants based purely on it's location: 50% bleached blonde and fake-boobed, 50% beach bum and khaki-wearing, and 10% normal. That's right - my gym exists in a vortex where 110% really is possible. It helps you give it your all.
So people are either trying not to pop their implants on the eliptical, or exercising in the clothes they wore to work that day. Either that, or staring at and being bothered by all the bizarre specimens putting themselves on display - like me.
It turns out that the gym on Valentine's Day is one of the most entertaining places you can be on the most pointless day of the year. While others are ditching their fitness regimine and paying for overpriced food and chocolate that won't get eaten, the rest of us are at the gym thinking about how pathetic everyone else there is. Who goes to the gym on Valentine's Day? I'll tell you who - Biker Without A Cycle, Sings-Out-Loud-Like-No-One's-Listening, and Asian Aerobic Superstar.
I don't know why she doesn't have feet.
Biker man is well-equipped for a day of riding up steep hills and through rough terrain, only he doesn't realize that the gym is, in fact, not outside. He still has his racing sunglasses on to shield him from the fluorescents, and his skin-tight neon outfit to outline his ba donka donk and monkey business like no other short can. Lost without his two-wheeled friend by his side, he resorts to the stationary bike - and does interpretive dance with graceful arm-circles while he's at it.
Rockstar jams along out loud to her ipod like she's the only one in the effing gym - what if I don't want to listen to to Whitney? (Who am I kidding, I always do.) But my favorite is A.A.S. - she does 80s-style aerobics EVERY DAY I'm there while she's pumping away on the eliptical. I think if she keeps it up she'll soon whither away and be nothing but negative space. But at least I won't have to wait as long for a tready. But really, can you stop distracting me from my run, because all I can focus on is how annoying your showcase of flamboyant exercising is. It's really unfair to ME.
There is just a really abnormal amount of weirdo in Los Angeles.
For instance, I can't help but discuss the amount of freakazoid currently taking over the patio of this Coffee Bean. I don't care if it has nothing to do with the gym, it still has to do with freaks, so this remains a cohesive entry. Boom.
The patio: Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, 'talk to me, I feel lonely'? Do I look like I'm aching for someone to discuss wireless internet and phone companies with? I think I need to start doing my hair differently, or wearing more unapproachable clothes (jeans and sweatshirt is apparently an invitation to interrupt my peaceful evening and blabber to me about your own bullshit, even though we've never met and never will again). Also, thank you to the lady who said she'd watch my computer when I went to pee, and left before I came back. Real classy.
Also, go to the gym.
Frankly, I love living in a land where people don't care how the outside world perceives them. Not only so I can relentlessly make fun of them, but also so that I can write about it and put it all over the internet. So I invite you to fly your freak flag loud and proud.
Lord knows everyone else does.
