channeling richard simmons

So I think I've really driven home the fact that I'm a people-watcher / creepy stalker. Spending a few post meridiem hours slouched back into a chair seeking out the world's more interesting creatures is pretty much my idea of a night out on the town, especially on a lucrative night of "sightings." Chueca, Madrid's gay neighborhood, is - for example - a veritable treasure trove of cross-dressers, awkward "real life" disco-dancing street performers and a wide assortment of other characters that never fail to astound me. Just throw in a cold beverage and some form of fried potato product - be it chips or fries - and it's quite possibly the ultimate night for this gal.

All this said, sidewalk cafes have a new prime people-watching hot spot rival. The gym.

A few months ago, I decided that I would replace a couple post-work hours each day in "active mode." A gym right down the street was having a two year anniversary promotional thing where joining was really cheap if you bought a year-long membership in the moment. Cheap is good. I like cheap, me and a girl I work with joined. I don't need anything special... just give me an elliptical and some weight machines that don't involve the possibility of crushing myself and I'm happy as a clam. However, this gym happens to be one of those techno-blasting athletic facilities to which pretty people go to not work out. Needless to say, a people-watching MECCA. Especially now that New Years and the annual semi-serious "I want to lose 10 pounds" resolution has brought a new crop of subjects. Here's a brief run-down...

The socializers. The first week that I went to the gym back in October or November, I was the sweaty oreo cream filling sandwiched between two perfectly composed cookies on the elliptical machines. Confused as to why I was the only red-faced slob of the trio, I switched into stalker-mode and decided to check out their stats. Sure, woman on my left. Your matching get-up and perfectly constructed ponytail are lovely, but treading on level 1 and burning exactly 112 calories over the course of a half-hour is pointless. Just because it makes your mascara run doesn't mean sweat is to be feared.

The metro or homosexual. In Spain, I often find there to be a very fine and unclear line that separates the two. A metrosexual, by definition, is a heterosexual man displaying female tendencies. I guess the stereotypical homosexual is thought to demonstrate those same tendencies, but switching the prefix and choice of partner. Either way, hairbands (and no, I don't mean Nike sweatbands) are quite a hit amongst the male population of Urban Fitness (ie my gym), as are waxed legs, fake-baking, hair products and snug, matching exercise outfits that can really only be classified as "cute."

The well-endowed. I will never understand why, when given the option, large-chested women opt to NOT give their girls some extra support. Boobs + gravity + treadmill = whoa, put those things away!

I will also never grasp why it is that Spanish women don't wear shorts to work out. Is there some sort of leg deformity that runs common amongst the "she" Spanish population that I am not aware of? When I work out, I usually feel like an overheating car... and that's with shorts and a tank top. Yet, I stick out as the only pair of female "I glow in the dark under a black light" legs in the place.

Annnnd that's my return to blogging.