Curves gets on my nerves.
I like the idea of Curves, because I don’t want to think and count reps. I like being told what to do—which explains why I get into relationships with guys who think it’s OK for them to say, “get your ass over here” and “make me some dinner.” So I like that a soothing woman’s voice tells me to “Change Stations Now!” every 35 seconds. 2-3 times around the circuit and you can bounce a quarter off my taut abs. And I can go home.
But there are things about my particular Curves that get on my nerves. Here’s the short list, because if you got the unedited script that continually loops in my head, you’d click “next blog” before I was halfway done.
1. First of all, it’s not about developing curves per se, it’s about building strength. Curves, we got aplenty, at least from what I see here in Quaintville. I’m talking acreage of curves, all over. In fact, I’m going to petition to rename my Curves Fupas instead.
2. The chick with the no bra; I refer to my previous post from the failed meditation.
3. The patriotic music CD that they keep playing; the Tuesday-Thursday afternoon crowd of 50-somethings really love this CD and I am outvoted. I usually have to leave and come back later because I can’t work out to The Star Spangled Banner and My Country 'Tis Of Thee!
4. The other CD that’s all wordless dance music, including that annoying doo doot doo doot doo doo doo that this guy dances to.
5. All the gabbing. There’s one notorious pair of ladies who gab through the whole workout, yelling across the circle to each other (our machines are arranged in a Farmer-in-the-Dell-ish friend circle). I now have learned that one of them has Crohn’s Disease; the other one has a daughter who eloped with a much older college professor, and that they share a love of sparkly yarns. Yawn!
6. People who try to engage me in conversation; I just want to stare straight ahead and fight off my own encroaching fupa, thank you so much.
7. My particular Curves owner is way too watchful. When I skipped a month and a half (I was having a small breakdown and consoling myself with Ben & Jerry’s Mint Oreo ice cream, so fuck off), I received a “we miss you!” postcard in the mail. Go away! [she says, digging for the mother lode: a WHOLE Oreo (Side note: Has that every happened for you? Hello, can we say oreogasm?!?)] I'll come back when I feel like it.
8. The owner’s female “friend” is a Pulse Nazi. You’re supposed to stop & take a 10-second pulse count every so often, whenever The Voice of Oz commands. Some people work out right through it; I know I have, like when I just started my workout and I’m pretty sure I didn’t get up to Optimal Heart Rate in 2 minutes. Especially on that waist-bendy machine that does nothing. Especially when I’m not even trying (the trouble with hydraulics is, you get out what you put in…and sometimes I just don’t feel like putting in, ya know?). Anyhow. Pulse Nazi actually STOPS the music, and says,
and she is rather scary; so -- sheeplike -- we all do. Except me. I stop and put my fingers on my neck and practice Blues Travelers’ Hook inside my head; I’ve almost got it down: “suck it in, suck it in, suck it in, if you’re Rin-Tin-Tin, or Anne Boleyn…”
Then the disembodied voice says, “resume exercising now!” and we all follow. Baaa baaa …
9. What’s up with no manly presence at this gym? The butch chick with the mullet next to me doesn’t count, although she does keep glancing at my bouncing nips. What’s that? Oh, I see … Curves for Women. Gotcha.
10. If I travel, which in the summer is a lot, I have to go through this whole complicated procedure to get a visitor's pass to work out at another Curves at my destination. I practically have to give blood. Luckily, O+ is the most desired blood type and that’ll come in handy when I go on my rampage.
A list of 10 is nice & tidy, so I won’t add #11 except as an afterthought: Whassup with closing every day from 12-3:30? How inconvenient!
Oops, speaking of which, will you just look at the time—gotta go.