I stepped on the scale at the gym, five pounds in five days. Damn.
It could have been worse considering the hours I’d spent sitting in a vehicle traveling over the holidays, followed by hours of grazing on hors d’oeuvres, turkey dinners and countless desserts. Not to mention the wine. OK, I guess five pounds wasn’t bad at all.
It was my first workout of the New Year. The gym was never so busy. I looked around at the various shapes and sizes of the men and women working out. They were tall, short, overweight, scary thin, clean-cut, tattooed, young and old. I recognized the regulars and noticed a few new faces, obvious recipients of a gym membership for Christmas or possibly the start of a New Year’s resolution.
Some had a look of sheer determination on their faces as they lifted crazy amounts of weight over their heads. Others moved slowly with that morning after expression, almost begging the girl behind the counter to turn the music down a notch.
I decided to push it hard, that five pounds wasn’t going anywhere on it’s own. I was just starting to work up a sweat when a forty-something blonde hopped on the elliptical beside me. She was sporting a bright fuchsia lycra suit, full makeup, jewellery, and manicured nails. I gasped for breath as her perfume filled the air.
I looked down at the black top and pants I’d worked out in forever and thought of the new lycra set my daughter had given me for Christmas, still lying under the tree. What was I saving it for? I should have worn it. I raised a hand to my hair, half-up, half-down. I looked at the blonde, not a hair out of place. Gaaad.
I shrugged it off. I wasn’t going to let Barbie get the best of me. We were in a gym for God’s sake, not a bar. I increased the level on my elliptical and turned up my iPod.
I glanced at the twenty-something girl to my left. She’d mastered the skill of working out while listening to her iPod and reading, deeply engrossed in People magazine’s Sexiest People of the Year.
There’s nothing like looking at pictures of beautiful, sexy people to motivate you to work out, although these days, it isn’t all about the exercise. Providing you’ve got the money to pay for it, cosmetic surgery, botox, breast implants, butt implants, hair extensions, collagen injections and acrylic nails, could put anyone on the most sexy list.
I can’t say I always agree with People’s choices (although they got it right with Beckham and Daughtry; they’ve definitely got it going on).
Personally though, I think sexy is different for everyone. My friend, for example, prefers blondes, while my husband prefers brunettes (or so he tells me). A girlfriend prefers younger men, while I prefer older. Another friend almost killed us when she suddenly slammed on the brakes to turn into a service station for three dollars worth of gas. She’d spotted a bald guy at the pumps, and bald obviously works for her.
When I was a teenager, The Partridge Family was a popular show. My friends were all in love with Keith, the oldest brother, while I liked Danny, the freckle-faced, red-head, and funny one. And while every woman swooned over Little Joe on Bonanza, I couldn’t help but feel warm all over when Hoss gave his gap-toothed smile. Most women preferred Hutch, but I preferred Starsky, and for years if you asked me who I thought was the sexiest man alive, I would’ve said Ed Asner. Yes, I thought he was hot!
Have you ever been so attracted to someone that the mere thought of them could make you tingle all over? I knew such a person and was stunned when a girlfriend, after meeting him, said she just didn’t get it. I’ve come to realize, sexy is different for everyone.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, pushed back my hair and glanced at the blonde next to me. She smiled a perfect smile. Was she ever going to break a sweat? What was it about her that made me want to ramp up her speed and squirt her with the spray bottle?