Oh, the foolhardy ego of youth...
It wasn't until I was leaving the ladies locker room that I noticed the sweat pants I was wearing were the ones that were covered in oil paints from the "brown period" of my artistic phase. My pants were adorned with careless fecal-colored smudges, namely around the thigh and ass region.
But that was okay. Surely everyone would assume it was paint and not poop. I hopped on a treadmill to kick start my caloric genocide. Nearly a minute in, red-faced and wheezing, I shifted my gaze to my feet and noticed an inordinately long string hanging from my pants. It dangled freely below my knee, taunting me, daring me to trip over it. I tried to stuff it back in, even though I was acting directly against the law of physics that says a drawstring (x), pulled past a certain point (y), cannot return to any previous position.
I glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching. I pulled the string.
I heard the mumblings of a conversation behind me.
I pulled the string more
And more. And more. And more.
AND MORE.
The voices grew louder, and the string grew longer.
Just as I was about to surrender to an eternity of frantic string pulling, it came out.
The string had an end after all!
Next up were the weight machines.
This was the first time I had actually ventured toward the weight machines by myself. I really had no idea what to do. At first it went well. I successfully tried two leg machines and a shoulder machine. I was getting pretty good at this. So naturally I thought, hmm...why not try the scariest one of all?
It was a back machine. I had no idea how it worked. I don't want to talk about it.
Oh yeah, and when I was leaving to get my sweatshirt and keys, I walked into the men's lockeroom.
