It's not lost on me that that my cozy, little corner of the blogosphere regularly dishes out a heapin' helpin' of yarns about my experiences at the gym.
Most don't contain subject matter you'd want to peruse while prying off the plastic lid to enjoy the hell out of the magical combo of corn, gravy and bacon in your KFC Famous Bowl.
But I think I've finally discovered why I talk about the gym so much. That welcoming little sweat box, affectionately known as the Fauntleroy YMCA, provides the genesis of nearly every workday.
It's a springboard to the next sixteen hours, and it can either unfold painfully, like Greg Louganis in the 1988 Summer Olympics:
Or in triumph, with Rodney Dangerfield's seemingly impossible "Triple Lindy":
Regardless of the outcome, either is magnified when operating during the fragile morning hours of 5:30 to 6:30. For example, my workout yesterday proceeded uneventfully; I worked up a nice lather on the nice cardio machine, not the one that hasn't been cleaned for so long that the its structure is seasoned with the granular residue a thousand sweaters, and I don't mean the kind Bill Cosby wore.
The lady who sings while rowing was wonderfully absent, as well.
And most favorably, the soap dispensers in the shower area were loaded to the brim with blue, gooey goodness, thereby eliminating the need to traipse my dripping nakedness to the carpeted sink area. As great as I know I look, no one wants to see a nude, wet and irritated man in the mirror while loading his toothbrush with tartar whitening baking soda peroxide triple protection Aqua Fresh, now with tooth straightener.
So, yeah, none of that stuff happened.
However, after toweling off and commencing the process of transforming myself into a presentable human, I discovered that I had packed two pairs of underwear...and no socks.
On occasion, I've also done the opposite, with two sock rolls accompanied by no underwear. Both are embarrassing.
These oversights are not "I-just-locked-my-keys-in-my-car" embarrassing, or "I-just-slammed-my-shin-against-a-fire-hydrant" painful. In those instances you roll out your Howitzer gun of profanities and fire them off them without regard to whom they may strike:
"M*#%^r f%*&ing son of a b*tch! I am such an idiot. I deserve to be struck with surgical precision by a top secret bomb which kills only stupid people and leaves buildings and the intelligent intact."
No, forgetting socks or underwear merely requires a small firearm of vulgarity, like "Forgodsakes" or "Shit. Why are you such a stupid f*(k stick?" and they're often inaudibly muttered.
You just have to ensure that no one sees you pull on your pants commando style, since it makes you look like you're headed to film a porno scene at the West Seattle Motor Inn. And people will judge your hygienic practices from that moment forward, should they witness your shoes laced over bare feet.
After returning home and rectifying any wardrobe missteps, I try not to project such blundering behavior onto the day which lies ahead. A quick affirmation in the mirror, a la Stuart Smalley, and it's time to roll.
My sixteen-year-old daughter once volunteered some unsolicited, yet sage advice regarding dressing for success. She stated that she always tries to look the best on Mondays and Fridays.
She wants everyone to enter the weekend remembering how good she looked on Friday, then she has to look awesome on Monday in case they'd forgotten.
I'll settle for underwear and socks.