So, most mornings I trudge my masochistic ass downstairs to the gym between 5:30 and 6:00, where I flash my little Gym ID card in front of the monitor (to prove that I am, indeed, a paying gym member, i.e. a card-carrying masochist and not a mere masochist imposter), grab a dinky white towel from the shelves by the protein bars, and continue on to the poolside elliptical trainers for my treadmill trip from point A to point A, covering 4 miles of nowhere in the Quixotic quest for buns of steel and an elevated metabolism envied by most giraffes. Go, cardio. Susan Powter, that crazy hopped-up snowball from the planet Methamphetamine, would be proud.

Now, if you’re a frequent reader, you’ve probably noticed that when it comes to physical self-image, I’m not so nice to myself. It’s a mite juvenile and shallow, but it’s the stinkin’ albatross that I carry, and its weight fluctuates constantly, but the damn thing never completely disappears. I got bit by the ol’ ugly bug shortly after hitting puberty, and I fear it’s infested me with an incurable venomous parasite, and I get frequent flare-ups of Ugly-itis. I know most of it is in my head, but a good deal of it, I’ve convinced myself, is based on my own empirical observations. (Since they’re my own observations about myself, I guess there’s no way they can be completely empirical … The bias is built-in.) Most evidence and experience has fortified my negative physical self-image, but again, both my opinion and the “evidence” that’s backed it are probably mostly generated from paranoia.

Wait… What? OK, the gist of that bullshit was: I usually think I’m ugly, but deep down, I suspect that maybe I’m not.

However, there is no disputing the fact that I am at my absolute gargoyle grodiest when I go to the gym at god-forsaken 5:30 in the frickin’ morning. My hair is thrown into a frizz-haloed, perfunctory French braid. My skin, which always seems to forget how to correctly distribute blood and pigment during the darkness of dawn, is blotchier than the Statue of Liberty before her anti-lime bath. My eyes, sort of poofy by nature, are barely visible. Strictly empirically speaking my morning workout visage, as compared to my usual mug, looks like I just endured 8 hours of clumsy oral surgery, sans anesthesia.

I wear fitted gym clothing to exercise in, though I am arguably One of Those People who should opt for the sweats instead of the spandex. But spandex, as opposed to sweats or jogging shorts, stay put during a workout instead of giving me wedgies and camel-toe. So, spandex it is, vanity be damned. I mean, seriously, I’m one of the only lunatics gymming at 5:30 AM, and the majority of my other workout companions are elderly swimmers. I’m not one of those hot, yet mysteriously sweat-free, gym bunnies, who looks great in designer magenta sportsbras and unbleedable “Athletic” mascara. My elliptical trip consists of me sweating while I listen to my walkman, while I intermittently rock out to mediocre radio, laugh at the catty and idiotic morning deejays, fart rather toxically, and then chuckle at my flatulence.

In short, I don’t expect to impress anyone when I work out. The only person I even remotely interact with at the gym is the full-lipped young man who works at the front desk, who looks like a cross between a Ken doll and your town’s 1990 prom king. He’s cute, but I’m sure he knows it. I’ve always detected in him an air of pathological unfriendliness, and what I perceived to be utter disdain for me, personally. He lives in my building, and I’ve seen him a couple of times outside of the gym, and he’d barely look my way. No “Hello,” not even one of those macho “’sup?” head-jerks. Nothing. Except for the occasional infuriating blank stare.

I didn’t like him. I tried being nice the first week as a gym member, and he was an utter void of geniality, so I decided he could go to hell, where maybe he’d learn a thing or two about “warmth.” (In his defense, I do only see him at frickin’ 5 frickin’ 30 in the frickin’-frickin’ morning. I may be the only person I know who is consistently capable of civility at that hour, never mind warmth.) A few weeks ago, however, he started to smile and show a flicker of recognition when I checked in, but I chalked it up to mockery and continued to damn him to hell.

But… Um … My birthday? Wednesday? (Let’s switch to present tense for narrative purposes … cue flashback music …. Doodlidoo doodlidoo doodlidoo hazy lighting and all that shit … )

So, as usual, I walk into the gym, flying my pre-sunrise ugliness like a knight’s banner, and flash my little Badge of Masochism. I say “hey” to 1990 Prom King, he returns the “hey.” My membership info (including my birth date) comes up on the computer screen, the monitor beeps, clearing me for entrance into the workout room. I grab my towel, and as I’m nearing the door to the pool section, 1990 Prom King (hereafter known as 90PK) says (with surprising enthusiasm) “Oh, hey! Happy birthday!”

I don’t care if it’s the perpetually aloof 90PK, I am utterly tickled that the first person whom I see on my birthday actually acknowledges this momentous event! This bodes well for the remainder of my day.

So I backtrack to the front desk, and have an actually friendly conversation with 90PK! He actually smiles and looks me in the eye! I discover his 28th birthday was Monday, we’re both Scorpios, and blablabla.

“Thank you very much for the birthday greetings, 90PK.”

I work out, blabla, go home, primp a bit, and go to work, where I get the following e-mail, posted in my last entry (italicized parenthetical inserts are mine … because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a slut for italics and parentheses):

Subject: “The guy at the gym (90PK) says ‘happy birthday’”

“Hey, just remember that Scorpio's are the best, and don't feel old! Scorpios are good at alot of things, but we have a great reputation for sex, (mother of God?) so just remember to get your freak on cause' B-Day Sex is the best! (MOTHER of GOD!) Everyone has to have sex on their birthday (yeah, ok, I get it)....I'm assuming you have a boyfriend? If not, call me downstaris (that’s his misspelling, not mine, but who am I to balk at misspellings?) at the gym before noon or e-mail me back what your plans are for today.......hit me back soon, okay? Let me know what's up.....”

What? The? Fuck? 90PK, is this a weird on-line booty call, or are you making fun of me?

Nonetheless, I’m intrigued, and I respond, cringing at my coyness:

Subject: “happy un-birthday from kelly”

“90PK, it's not even noon, and this is already a fantastic birthday. i'm just in a great mood, and have been all morning. i treated myself to a cab ride to work this morning, which was a mite pricey because i work way the hell out in buttfuck … but it was worth it because this is MY BIRTHDAY! yay!

“i'm going out for dinner and to an improv show with some friends tonight, followed, i hope, by drinks afterwards. i'm taking tomorrow off from work, because i fully intend to be plenty hung over. (I wasn’t hung over, by the way, but I did enjoy my day off. I went to Cy’s and baked a supersized supergoopy chocolate cake.)

“nope, no boyfriend, and thus the ‘freak’ is unfortunately ‘off’ for tonight, but one of my good friend's boyfriend/pseudo-fiancee is in town, so maybe they'll share some birthday booty tonight in my honor.

“ew. that's kind of creepy. never mind.

“anyway, so that's the revelry i've got in store for tonight. i'm very much looking forward to it.

“i'm also co-hostessing a big party on friday, with another scorpio friend. (That’s TONIGHT’S circus party, kids! Perhaps photos will be posted in the near future, but only if I look exceptionally cute.) you're welcome to come if you'd like. just ask for the specifics (time, place, etc.,) and they shall be yours. (See? See, with the coy? Ew.)

“not only that, but my bosses just told me they're taking me out for a birthday lunch on monday. (That’s true. Those guys rock, all in all.) ah, it's so nice to be worshipped and appreciated. (Aaaand, we end with a goddess-worthy quip. Ew.)

“thanks for the well-wishes

Kelly”

Yup. Keeping the worm-can open, but not necessarily full-on baiting the hook. So, soon after I hit “SEND,” I get the following reply:

Subject: “Re: happy un-birthday from Kelly

“Scorpios are the best. (yeah, 90PK, I think you mentioned that … so, your wit’s not your strongest attribute …) We are good at everything....(dude, what’s with all these dotty things? I use ‘em, too, admittedly, but not quite so arbitrarily as this … not in lieu of all appropriate punctuation. OK, now I’m getting bitchy) I heard the improv has some funny shit (It was damn funny). Get drunk as hell, cause' it's your birthday and you get to do anything or anyone you want...Too bad you don't have a boyfriend (yuh) cause' you'd be able to make him do anything for ya on your birthday..(If you know what I mean) (Jesus, Mary and …) But you are a Scorpio, and you can get a man if you want, all you have to do is put it out there. (… fucking Joseph!) Scorpios have a sexual power that is undeniable. I sense the force in you is strong, (that fucking killed me … what am I, the Loooovvvve Jedi?) I knew you were a Scorpio or somethin', I could just tell there was somethin' about you, and now I know what it is. (Yeah, cuz it sure ain’t my frizzy blotchy flatulent swollen early morning babishness. Must be my sun sign.) I won't really be able to make it to that party on Friday, but have extra fun for me.”

Hm. End that.

Sorry about this story, folks, it’s just that this shit never happens to me.

Back to past tense.

I went to the gym this morning to find 90PK waiting in the stairwell. No, he wasn’t waiting for me. The owners hadn’t arrived to open up, so no one could get in and, surprise surprise, I was the only client to have arrived so crap-ass early. So me and 90PK had a moment to bond, waiting for the den of cardio to open.

Nice enough guy, 90PK. Amusingly self-assured. It’s been awhile since I’ve met someone like that. He works almost full-time at the gym, and is starting a T-shirt company with the backing of an investor. Interesting. Know what else is interesting? He lives with his girlfriend.

The dawg.

Men, I must ask you a question. (Sorry, but this is mostly geared towards breeders, because those are the only men with whom I’ve been remotely romantically involved. Except for my first boyfriend, who was my counterpart in my longest and most satisfying relationship, and came out of the closet shortly after we broke up. But we won’t go into that now.)

Now, I normally resist making gender stereotypes, but recent experience has made me question this resistance in a certain respect. And so. Men? Are you all dawgs? Or rather, does the dawgish streak run so virulently in each of you that you find it impossible to repress?

Given, most situations in which I’ve come face-to-face with the inner dawg of man would not have arisen had I not let my own inner dawg off her leash. So I’m not saying that women are without their dawgish qualities. It just seems, from experience and observation, that men, after an outbreak of dawgishness (e.g. a one-night-stand or something) are more likely than women to run away with their tails between their legs, lick their balls, and pretend that nothing happened. Maybe it’s because society fosters a “boys will be boys” mentality that encourages men to use their dawgishness as an excuse for sexually inappropriate behavior (e.g. sending suggestive emails to a woman you see every day, even though you live with your girlfriend). Why do you guys seem so desperate to nail us girls?

Back to one of my favorite subjects: Sexual Evolution.

So, you’re an male ape. You jungle around with all your ape buddies, and you don’t mate for life. Now, a lady ape, when she gets knocked up, she knows without a doubt that the baby ape that spurts from her womb is hers. Her DNA has been successfully passed on to the next generation of apes, which is, like primo in terms of evolution. The males, however, because apes are naturally promiscuous (and it can be argued that humans are as well), can never be entirely sure which lady ape has carried his kid; so, to increase the likelihood that at least one of those baby apes bears his DNA, he nails as many ladies as possible.

That’s one argument as to why men seem genetically programmed to at least ogle the ladies for possible nailage. But hey, we’re humans, we should know better, so BULLSHIT! Fucking evolve. But that’s not even really what I was talking about.

And again, we ladies ain’t perfect. Everyone likes sex, gender regardless. And it makes all of us act weird.

I’m really not terribly indignant about this. I’m just ranting.

On the flip side, if sex makes the stereotypical male a dawg, it makes the stereotypical woman a pussy. (Meow.) Discuss. I have to go.

My ride’s leaving soon.

PARTY TONIGHT!

*message truncated*

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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