Dear Readers –
In honor of Memorial Day, I’ve decided to give my sarcasm a day of rest and enjoy the phenomenal weather. Don’t be sad – you wouldn’t have read anything today anyways. Get outside, enjoy the sun, memorialize someone, and have a great day!
Posts will resume bright and early Thursday morning.
To Scratch or to Scratch Harder – That is the Question.
I respect men. I could never walk around with a log hanging between my legs every day. (Yes, I’m being generous.) Talk about discomfort. And, if I did have one, I’m sure I, like most woman, would be obnoxious and feel the need to accessorize it. Then, J.Crew would come out with jeweled sac covers in light pink and orange, and life as we know it would be over.
The world really would be a disaster if women were the ones toting around a second brain instead of men. After all, if men didn’t have a penis, what would they think with for half the day? (Kidding…kind of…) A man’s world would be turned upside down if he lost his mini-me, but for one man – a particular man at my gym, I believe that life would be oh, so much better.
It’s not that I reject the concept of chaiffage. I just choose to ignore it. This, however, is relatively impossible when this man at my gym spends the first thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds of his treadmill workout scratching and adjusting and wiggling and scratching again. Don’t worry; I timed him while my jaw dropped as I worked out on the stair climber.
Perhaps this is just the woman in me talking, but at how is it that he, at no point, thought to mosey on into the bathroom and take care of this “situation” in the privacy of his own stall? Is this act truly acceptable in Man Town? If it is, please let me know now because I’d like to prepare myself for future episodes.
I digress.
Though I chalked his initial “adjustments” up to discomfort, I couldn’t help but get worried around minute eight when he still hadn’t stopped. I was legitimately concerned. What if killer ants had invaded his short-shorts? Would I have to step in and perform some kind of rescue mission?
Pass.
At this point, I did what most people would do in my situation – I looked around for another witness. If my retinas were going to be burning with this image, I wanted someone else to go down with me. There was no one – nobody was seeing what I was seeing! All I needed was one person to non-verbally sympathize with my inner struggle to finish a workout and not barf, yet I was a lone wolf.
It’s funny how people always look at you in the gym when you’re sweaty and gross, but when you’re about to fall off a machine because a man across the room just put his hands down his pants, there’s nobody in sight. Oh yes, both hands were inserted into his pants in hopes of fulfilling a journey to solve whatever problem was occurring in Sacville around minute eleven. They failed. He was back to external scratching a mere seventeen seconds after their removal.
I finished my workout around the same time Scratch McNasty finished, what I’ll call, his warm-up. I walked quietly into the locker room and gathered my belongings, scarred. I knew, at that moment, that I’d never be able to mount that particular treadmill again or forget the site of a seventy-three year old man with his hands down his pants.
Perhaps I would have written this incident off as some kind of a daydream had the man been attractive, but that’s just not my luck.
Tags: Chaiffage, Gym, Humor, Life, Men, Scratching, Treadmill, Working Out
Sundays are for rest and relaxation but not for Manhattan women who have the unfortunate luck of being trapped on the M35 bus.
I must preface this by saying that there’s nothing wrong with the bus. As a general mode of transportation, buses are fine. Generally speaking, I support their overall impact on our environment and…insert whatever other politically correct statements I need to make here.
All that being said, the M35 is scary as hell. There’s no other way to describe the voyage from Manhattan to Randall’s Island than with disturbing adjectives. This has nothing to do with the initial awkward pause during which I can’t figure out how to insert my metro card in the machine or the distinguishable smell of pee looming beneath an unidentified seat – most likely the one closest to wherever I am. It has everything to do with the mysterious people who ride the bus and the overall ambiance of an insane asylum.
Let me explain with some visual aids…also known as my co-passengers:
The Imagineer: Imaginary friends are fine for children. Imaginary friends are not okay for adults, especially those within arms reach of yours truly. Someone needs to tell this to the man who spent twenty minutes talking to the window both through hand gestures and in a language that only he can understand. Sadly enough, frequent bursts of laughter made me think that this man’s imaginary friend is funnier than most of the real people I meet on a daily basis.
Los Violatadores: I’d truly like to give a shout out to the two men who stared awkwardly at my sister and I for the duration of our travel. Never in my life have I felt so disgusted by gaze. Bravo. And, by the way, we both speak Spanish – we know what you said right before you licked your lips, and it made both of us want to vomit, take showers, and go deaf. Really, well done.
The Connoisseur: Only a true connoisseur would understand the classiness of drinking a beer in a brown paper bag through a straw while riding along 125th Street. I guess there’s nothing like channeling one’s inner frat party to obtain maximum benefits of a Bud Light by sipping it like a toddler. Apparently, that’s how the big guns chug-a-lug, and I’ve been doing it wrong for years. Noted.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear for my life on the journey towards the island that God forgot. How could I not be with all the leers in my direction, the accidental losses of balance that resulted in hands grazing my right hamstring, and the general feeling that I was someone’s dessert?
There are times when it’s nice to get the visual once over – like when you’re dressed up at 230 Fifth or wandering the streets of Meatpacking. But, the moment you’re trapped between a grabby-handed 5’3” man who’s boob height and a 6’5” man reeking of liquor and garbage, getting ogled is the last thing on your mind. The first thing? Running for your life.
Does the new term have men’s self-esteem running for cover?
I live in a model casting call. Apparently, all the five foot-eleven inch, size two women in the world set up shop within a three-block radius of my apartment. It’s ridiculous and threatening. I try…passionately, but I can’t compete with the Heidi Klums of New York City. They appear flawless with their Chopard diamonds, Weitzman shoes, and Chanel bags. These women know how to accessorize; yet, when it comes to the most important accessory of all – a boyfriend – they select men that don’t necessarily complement their shoes, if you know what I mean.
Have you ever walked down the street and seen a smokin’ hot girl with a mediocre man and thought “mismatch?” I have, and whether you want to admit it or not, you have too. It’s natural; go with it. When you see such a couple, you’re likely to think the man must be bringing something non-physical to the table like money, charm, or a Will Ferrelesqe sense of humor. You think, “How else could he have landed this woman?” Well, you’re not the only one noticing these couples, and the streets of NYC have spoken.
To those men who find themselves having romantic dinners with women towering over them on the attraction scale, I have one thing to say – you’re overchicked. That’s right, you’ve been labeled. This new term describes a man paired with a more attractive woman and directly brings attention to the attractiveness discrepancy. Although women are bound to find the term complementary, men are likely to be torn – uncomfortable about their inferiority and proud of their conquest.
The emergence of the term, “overchicked,” has me wondering why there isn’t a comparable term for women dating hotter men. It’s not that I’d ever want to be “overdicked,” but what the hell, don’t women get a word? Then it hit me, women would only need a word if attractive men dated less attractive women. Be honest, how many men do you know that date down? I can think of…um…none.
Although I’m a big supporter of the new term – I’ve been using it for a few days now to describe my friend’s relationship with her new man – I’m slightly disappointed that there’s no need for a female oriented word. I guess I’ll have to wait until men are no longer driven by physical appearances. Don’t worry – I’m not holding my breath.
What New York women seemingly need to put out their flames is a firehouse in the flesh.
This weekend was gorgeous – or so I saw through the window. While I was stuck inside doing work during daylight hours, most New Yorkers were gallivanting in the city streets, tanning in the park, or running alongside the West Side Highway. Though many of you think I suffered inside for thirty-six hours, God decided to reward the dedication I have towards finishing my book and sent me a gift. Sixteen gifts to be exact.
As I sat in the local sandwich shop, silently cursing the nauseating couple next to me, a beacon of light walked through the door. One after the other, members of the NYFD walked through the opening and into my academic oasis. Sixteen suited firemen – the opening scene of a woman’s fantasy.
Apparently, it was the opening scene of a lot of New Yorkers’ fantasies.
As the fire department filled the room, women flocked inside the previously empty space. Tall women and short women and old women and young women followed their noses leading them to the men like Toucan Sam to his Fruit Loops. It was as if none of these women had ever seen a fireman before; it was as if firemen existed only as photos or a figments of their imaginations, but on this special day, each woman was allowed to see greatness in person.
I must say though, I was disappointed. Having been forced to view New York’s finest every day for a year when I walked into my kitchen and saw my sister’s NYFD calendar, I can’t say these men measured up. Okay, some of them did. One in particular…woah.
Being a warm-blooded female, I didn’t miss my opportunity to silently watch the men as they filed in, but I kept my observations under wraps and denied eye contact. (I really did have to get work done.) I can’t say the same for one woman – a woman who looked as if she was on her way to the park that morning but found herself distracted by and drawn to the massive display of rubber, yellow pants and navy shirts.
It was no act of fate that brought her into the restaurant that day. I saw it all go down.
First, I witnessed the woman walking by the place and casually peer in through the glass window. Then I saw her backtrack and walk by in the opposite direction and in through the door. It took eight seconds for her brain to register the savior mob as a midtown treasure and put herself in contact with firemen – lots and lots of firemen who would be able to put out the fire that’s been burning in her pants.
It was clear that she came in for no other reason than to watch – to stare. Having purchased nothing, this woman sat at a table and pretended to watch the news. She wasn’t watching the news. Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see her scanning the firemen from a distance and mentally tracking their every move.
For twenty-five minutes, this woman sat at the table, straining her neck as she watched each man exit with their sandwich. It wasn’t until the last one left that she collected her belongings and left to go back on her merry way. Or, maybe she continued following them. It wouldn’t surprise me.
