It was supposed to be an afternoon of intervals on the treadmill. But when Julia and I got to the gym, the cardio machines were full. So we signed up for the next time slot and headed to the mats to stretch and do ab work. And then lifted weights. When it came time to run, he got in the way.
"He" is a man who does not wash his gym clothes. Ever. He was running, in slip-on loafers, on Treadmill 1. I was signed up to run beside him on Treadmill 2. But I couldn't do it. In fact, I had a hard time doing bicep curls a good ten feet behind him because of the stench. And it kept spreading, wafting through the poorly ventilated space. I couldn't get away from the rotten odor of what I consider to be decades of layered perspiration.
I ran beside him once. I wasn't sure if I was going to throw up or pass out, but I was quite certain that I wouldn't survive my 20 minutes. My iPod doesn't have a smell filter.
So today we went outside. Where I could breathe. And made plans for both outdoor training and early-morning runs. And fantasized about doing a stranger's laundry.
He needs a buddy to teach him the ways of the gym. And of life. And I need to carefully map out a treadmill schedule that doesn't overlap with his.
There was a study recently about women and men and perspiration. Apparently, as a woman, I'm capable of discerning between workout sweat and he-likes-me sweat. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. I'm also pretty sure that if a guy wants to impress, he dons a clean T-shirt at least once a week. With him, I'd settle for once a month.