Back to the Gym.

I'm back at the gym.

I took a short break from working out. A four month break. But I'm back now, and that all that matters.

Any day now I expect my "muscle memory" to kick in. I am hoping that this myth of "muscle memory" is an actual fact and not an urban legend that people seem to badger about in the weightlifting community.

Like I know anyone in the weighlifting community.

But I have to say that after day three (first day was a week ago, where I did cardio only, second day was Monday where I actually lifted weights, and then today where I did more weights and more cardio) I feel good. A bit sore but good.

But let me tell you something about going to the gym that I forgot about. The gym is a constant source of amusement for me. I had completely forgotten about the man who wears wrestling suit as he works out - though thankfully the man with the Kenny G hair who wears the lycra pants and the tank top three sizes too small wasn't there (the pants are SOOOO tight - the entire gym knows whether he is circumcised).

My favorite singing dancing man wasn't at the gym today either. The man who invariably is able to get on the treadmill on the right hand side, so that he's first person you see when you exit the locker room. Somehow the man is able to score this prime position each and every time I see him at the gym, even though there is always a HUGE line for the treadmill. And everytime he gets on, he's sprinting hard and fast, with his hands in the air raising the roof and singing along to his favorite disco hits. I keep on watching him, like a trainwreck waiting to happen, to see if he will trip up and fall, but he never does.

But there was the bevy of effeminate asians at the gym. The one that is my friend Annie's favorite wasn't there, but his friends seems to be. Because, strangely all the effeminate asians are friends with each other.

And no, I am not friends with them.

Annie's favorite is the uber-effeminate one. The one that head and hair flip above all other effeminate asians. He works out in his artfully customized tank top (let's create a v-neck, by taking scissors to it, and while we're at it, let's give the tank top some fringe as well by cutting vertical parallel strips at the bottom). I'm all for customizing your own clothing, and the whole DIY, readymade look, but some people take it to an extreme.

Annie's favorite part is when he uses the weight machines. He puts the bar on the very lightest setting (or perhaps takes the bar out competely) and then pulls, pushes, or moves the equipment in the gentlest of fashion. Some people actually grunt or yell when they work out. He sighs.

And though I am not one to mock the gym boys and girls and all those that fall in between (lord knows I've fallen off a treadmill or two, or actually dropped a weight on my chest once or twice - an incident that had me going to the doctor because I was fearful that I had cracked a rib) I do find the myriad of people at the gym fascinating as a cross section of San Francisco.

But let me ask you all (and I say you all, as if there are multiple people who are reading this blog) something. From all the things that I say (and I haven't even bothered to get into the numerous sexual acts I have witnessed there - though more often at other gyms, and not the one that I frequent). Why is it that today of all days, I had to see something that totally grossed me out?

Today I saw a man shower with his socks on.

Perhaps he was scared of the shower floor. Which is understandable (when I said that I more often than not see sex acts at other gyms, the operative word is "more often than not" as some things do occur). But the floor is cleaned with rather powerful cleaning fluid daily. I've seen it. Or perhaps he was worried he would get some horrible fungus, or worse, had some horrible fungus that he didn't want to pass on. Or perhaps he was just trying to be hygenic.

Regardless it freaked me out. The socks were gray and dingy tube socks, with a dull navy blue strip around them. And they were socking wet. Was he going to actually wear them home or did he have an extra pair that he could switch to. Were these socks the ones that he wore all day, or the ones that he worked out in? If they were the ones that he worked out in, that meant he showered in his already damp wet sweaty socks.

Or what if he always wore socks when he showered even at home? What if that was his "thing"? What if his feet never got washed, never got properly cleaned? What foul disgusting things would be hidden under that grubby cotton?

The gym never fails to entertain me. But sometimes I get a sitcom, sometimes an HBO dramedy, and every now and then I get a psychological thriller/horror show.

Thank goodness I always pack a set of flip flops for the shower.