Old Dogs, New Tricks?

It seems as though the daytime version of our favorite evening passion-pit pub is the gym. The one place where many of us go to improve our appearance, lose a few of those extra late night binge pizza pounds and, yes, for a few - even try to improve the health & well-being of our massively over-stressed bodies. What is it that makes us think the "Knight in Shining Armor" is really that guy across the ripe smelling room lifting enough weight to crush a SmartCar? Are we really so optimistic that we believe we are attractive when dripping with sweat and our once nice fitting tee shirt that's now coldly clinging to, and sagging against, those same body parts we are trying to improve? Added to the aforementioned visual sense is the foray of unusual odors our bodies amazingly emit when pushed beyond the capacity normally reserved for working farm animals. Now - is someone REALLY that confident? Or are we just that desperate? Take, for example, Mr. SF. No, I am not refering to some god-like image, golden brown to perfection like the turkey we would rather be home eating in front of the television. He is also not from San Francisco. Mr. SF earned his title quite honestly but in a somewhat revolting manner. He has Stinking Feet. Vile, putrid, fuming fetid feet. Now I am not talking about just some average end-of-the-day "Hey, I've been on my feet all day" aroma. The locker room air turns pungently green when he passes through. This comes, in my opinion, from repeatedly wearing (with no socks of any kind) canvas gym shoes that should have been tossed away the second summer when the well-known classic designer introduced his newest version on the fashion runways. And what can possibly be comfortable against the naked skin about the interior of footwear designed for strenuous activity? I, for one, prefer to go through life without raw-rubbed heels and blistered toes. When one day I had the unfortunate experience of using a locker near his, I made a mental note to throw an extra pair of new socks into my gym bag. Maybe I'll find the chance to slip them into his fuming locker or bag as a hint. But this hygene issue is not really my point. SF spends more time at the gym than most bulging body builders, and, in the last several years shows no sign of six-pack abs or firmer flab. The reason? The gym-cruise. SF makes the rounds of this rather large, multi-level facility no fewer than five times during the course of this author's typical 75 minute workout. The gym is the cruise bar of the Millenium. While I am pursuing respectable biceps that will no longer force my arms into long sleeves in the heat of summer, SF is pursuing everything else. And he is not alone. One miscalculated, painful return glance to any predator can immediately warrant a ten minute pursuit (complete with mock exercises) through the jungle of machines, treadmills and free weights. If that energy of the chase was directed toward the nearest bench press or barbell, we all might just see fewer infomercials for the latest get-fit-quick home fitness scams. Would that be a bad thing? I think it's a win-win. Look, it's challenging enough just to get through three sets of reps on several machines before wheezing my way back to my locker. We don't need the added pressure of being scoped out as a potential "Knight for the night" by SF and find that when we gasp for air, it has all the flavor and consistency of smoldering rotten eggs. Don't the SF's of the world get the fact that most people are there do get the job done and get out, moving on to more pleasurable experiences of the day? Hey - like maybe shopping for new gym shoes?! Or, are more people actually going to the gym looking for the sweaty, smelly Knight who can lift that white horse above their head, complete with the equestrian scent? I may not find the answers to those questions during the next spin class. Well, mainly because I don't take a spin class. But for now, I can breathe easier knowing that while walking down Michigan Avenue last weekend, I spotted SF handing a shop girl his American Express card. He hasn't found his White Knight, but he has managed to find a pair of brand spankin' new white Nikes. But...I'm keeping those extra socks in my gym bag...just in case.