Five Foot Rule

I went to the gym for the first time since October last night.  Since I was last there, offices have been built, personnel has changed, new rules have been added.  I was just relieved my membership card still worked.

I was on the elliptical, a bit more out of breath than usual but otherwise killing it considering I’ve been AWOL for months.  I was wearing my new headphones and enjoying some really kick ass music I added to my workout playlist, eyes glued to ESPN, as per usual.  A guy walked by, went out of his way to make eye contact with me, then motioned that he liked my hair.  I gave him a thumbs up and hopefully didn’t shout “thank you.”

I’ve gained at least 30 pounds since last fall and it shows but that one compliment had me thinking all the following throughout my 40 minute workout:

Guuuuurl, 30 pounds heavier and I’ve still got it.  It IS all about that bass.

Maybe E shouldn’t leave me alone on the back row to work out by myself.  Next time, he should carry me in like a caveman, set me down on the elliptical, pound his chest, and yell “Girl mine!”

Damn it, I forgot to wear my wedding ring.  How irresponsible.  Every man in here has noticed my lack of a ring by now.  There could be a feeding frenzy.  Innocent men could become so distracted, they get thrown violently from their treadmills and possibly maimed or killed and I have no one to blame but myself.  Get it together, Steph!

I didn’t even wear makeup today.  I’m a Sephora VIB Rouge member and I don’t even need all that shit.  Think of all the money and time I’ll save by not wearing makeup!

Wait a minute!  There’s that guy who hit on me, over by the weights.  He’s a trainer here.  Guess he’d better get his crush in check because he’ll be seeing a lot of me now that I’m working out again.  It’s gonna be hard on him.  I’ll try to dial it back but that’s like asking the sun to stop shining.

I wonder if any local stores stock graphic tees with “Sorry, I’m taken” on the front?  That would save a lot of time and heartache for these poor bastards.

Oooh, I should post about this on Facebook.  Wait, no.  I shouldn’t flaunt my natural beauty.  Cindy Crawford doesn’t do it and neither should I.  Don’t be that girl.

Oh, thank God.  Here comes E, he’s done with his workout.  I can get out of this meat market now.

As E handed me a wipe for my elliptical, he said “There’s a new sign posted above the wipe dispenser that just reads “Five Foot Rule.  Do you know what that is?”

I replied that I didn’t know but I’d Google it on the way home.  I threw my jacket on and quickly explained that I was the hunted, my pheromones were obviously out of control and it’d be wise to get me out of there PDQ before something unfortunate happened.  I sprinted toward the exit, alert and ready to dropkick rabid, love crazed male suitors as soon as they approached.  No means no, damn it!

E let me walk out alone in a dark parking lot because he couldn’t wait for Google to explain the Five Foot Rule.  He stopped by the front desk to ask an employee what it meant.

I didn’t relax until I was safely strapped into the truck with my seat belt.  I allowed E to get into the driver’s seat only after I carefully checked the perimeter and unlocked the door.  I asked him what the Five Foot Rule meant.  He initially refused to tell me and instructed me to ask Google, since I didn’t care enough to stick around inside for an answer.

He eventually caved to my whining womanly wiles and told me what the Five Foot Rule meant:

Every gym employee must speak to you if they are within 5 feet of you.

Mother fucker.

Will There Be Cake?


I turn 45 years old in exactly 8 minutes.

I had lunch today with E and his coworker Steve.  I told Steve that I’m not too happy about this birthday because it puts me right at the midpoint between 40 and 50 years old.  I added that the alternative to aging is death so I’ll take the aging but I don’t have to be happy about it, damn it.

This is also my last weekend of complete and total food debauchery.  I’ve been on a spree since Halloween.  If food was cocaine, I’d be roomies with Robert Downey Jr. at the rehab clinic.  I bought a new Fitbit a couple weeks ago (I’ve lost 3 in watery washing machine deaths.  RIP, Fitbits.) and when I entered my current weight, Fitbit’s digital reply was “Wait.  What?  Girl, you crazy.  Stop fucking with me.”  Lane Bryant is sending me passive aggressive emails which might as well say “We all knew you and your fat ass would be back, bitch.  Here’s a coupon for stretchy pants.”

I start eating healthy and return to the gym on Monday, leftover birthday cake or not.  And who am I kidding? There will be no leftover cake.  I’ll be on that cake like a rabid dingo on a poor, innocent baby.

My motivation for losing weight is the Spring Break cruise we just booked.  I’m not that vain, I just really don’t want to get rolled back into the ocean because my fellow cruise travelers mistook me for a beached whale.  Fuckers.  My only hope for avoiding that fate is to lose a bit of weight and avoid wearing black or grey on the cruise but I’ve already accepted that this will probably end badly for me.  I’m fairly certain the term “harpooning” will be noted as the cause of death in my obituary.

Okay, okay.  Enough with the fat jokes.  I’m looking forward to my birthday cake but I’m looking even more forward to how I feel when I get some of this hibernation/holiday weight off.  It’s been kind of a rough few months so I’m not going to kick myself in the ample ass over it.  I will, however, miss lattes that don’t start with “Skinny”, Sugar In The Raw, fully leaded flavored coffee creamer, cookie dough in any form (fuck you, Salmonella!), and my recent wine kick.

The next time I post a blog, I’ll probably be going to or returning from the gym and tits deep in sweat from giving these cushy love handles I’m now sporting a haymaker right to the nuts.

But first, I have to finish that birthday cake.  Dingo.  Baby.  Let’s do this.