It was with some dismay on both our parts that the lovely Sarah and I discovered that we each work out at the Premier Club (which, by the way, I hear is in negotiations to sell itself to Lifetime Fitness, alas). The thing is, you don’t want to see your co-workers at the gym. In the morning, before they’ve showered, grunting on a treadmill, sweat soaking their threadbare t-shirt. Blech. When Sarah and I finally did run into each other at the gym one morning, we each shielded our eyes from the other and kept walking without saying hi.
The problem becomes more acute when that co-worker is a male. Because, you know, then there’s the locker room. Where one disrobes. And is forced to display not only one’s John Thomas (if one is a male) but also one’s gross back zit and disgracefully hairy nipples. Humanity, most of it, is not a thing of poetry. Or rather, it takes poetry to make us forget how ugly it truly is. That’s one of the reasons we employ a staff of designers who know how to Photoshop away the facial moles and saggy arm fat of the people who wind up on our cover (but please don’t think I’m referring to LeAnn Rimes).
All of which is to say that I was alarmed to learn that Adam has also joined the Premier Club. I ran into him this morning. Adam likes to swim. In a black Speedo that looks as if it was purchased when Adam was an eighth-grader.
Sarah, watch out.
