Metroblog

A one-time school project gone terribly, terribly wrong.

13 March 2007

Motivation

It's about fitness and health. I'm up at ten-to-six each AM to go get sweaty in order to avoid an untimely heart attack. It's about boosting my mind, or biceps size. Or reducing my waistline. And it is, one hundred percent.

Okay, maybe 99 percent ...

I'm doing biceps curls when I get cross-eyed trying to avoid staring at her in the mirrored wall. She's curvy and compact, with a face like a Chicana Tinkerbell. I try not to stare, yes I do, really. I may be rude, crude, and socially awkward, but I am not entirely unreconstructed.

Besides, who likes being stared at--'specially in a gym? People stare at my sweating, lard-gutted carcass all the time. If I hadn't learned as a bowl-cut, horn-rimmed, polyester-shirt-clad child not to give a $#!7 I might be intimidated. Most women seem to arrive, exercise like fiends, and depart. I do something similar myself. Probably for similar reasons.

But having seen her catch my eye in the mirror no less than three times, I give up and allow myself ten seconds of uninterrupted ogleing. As I return to the machine she flashes me a smile that suggests she lives to make dopey guys drop heavy weights on our toes.

She wants to be stared at, it seems clear. I'm not shopping for anything--I love my wife and I'm reasonably sure the sentiment is reciprocal. I'm certain she isn't shopping for something, and if she was, well we're in a gym--it might safely be described as a "target-rich environment". So what's the harm? Aside from crushed toes? As I move the pin to select a stack of plates, she's flickering in my peripheral vision, looking my way. I ignore her with dignity.

Almost.

Fhat the wuck, I think, and throw on another ten kilos.

9 Comments:

At 5:05 p.m., Anonymous archie said...

I found this in Usenet some time ago:-
"Men of all shapes and sizes, ages and creeds, and states of marital or relationship bliss enjoy, every now and then, the sight of a woman with no clothes on. It's just as well we do, you know, otherwise there'd be no new little earthlings, would there? If you want to call that oppression or
sexism or the commodification of the female body then go right ahead, but don't expect me to talk to you at dinner parties. I prefer to call it sexual attraction, but then I'm a sad case who spends half his life in front of computer, so what the hell do I know?"

 
At 5:19 p.m., Anonymous azahar said...

Sad, Metro ...

 
At 6:18 p.m., Blogger Metro said...

I agree--but is it sad because I instinctually try to damp down my urge to scope her like a U-boat or because I end up unable to or because she appeared to be seeking the attention?

However, Archie's imagination has clearly overheated somewhat. She distincly had clothes on. Most places, anyway.

I follow the statement that:
"It is impossible for a man to love his wife wholeheartedly without loving all women somewhat. I suppose that the converse must be true of women."
--Lazarus Long

 
At 6:22 p.m., Anonymous azahar said...

Uh huh, it says loving not lusting (and only loving somewhat).

 
At 6:27 p.m., Blogger Metro said...

I said nothing about love in the post. Only that I wanted to stare at her.

Besides, what would humans be without the odd bout of lust?

(Rare)

 
At 3:26 a.m., Anonymous archie said...

Which is what my comment was about. The occasional lustful stare. Made all the sweeter when returned in a situation where both parties know nothing further will happen. (I also have Lazarus' comment on my list)

 
At 5:34 a.m., Anonymous Philipa said...

She obviously wants to be adored. Hey, what woman doesn't? You can look but don't touch oh... (whispers) and take care not to drool.

 
At 11:45 a.m., Anonymous PJ said...

Completely serendipitously, I went from this site to Kottke.org where I found this post.

Men ogle other men's -- ahem -- laps more than women do.

 
At 1:18 p.m., Blogger Metro said...

I think the science is wrong on that. Ted Haggard, Jeff Gannon, and Matt Sanchez threw the curve off.

Somewhere in Washington, a certain big-eared failed buisinessman and former C-student is whispering in someone's ear:

"Dick--whar can ah lay my hainds on a codpiece?

And yer gonna haveta change yer name, y'know that, dontcha?"

 

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