shopping is not my cardio unlike my friend awash in cash who has hooked up with this rich rice queen lover. but I digress, early on.
mine involves feigning exertion in a forgiving elliptical. this is just the neglible 10 percent of the regimen. the rest, as attention deficit sufferer thomas alva edison decreed, involves inspiration. looking at sweaty buffed men inspiration.
creatively juiceless for the past month, I decided it was time to make use of my gym membership only for the second time this year.
fearing I would make a fool of myself again, I decided to load up on what they call in my gym as the crack juice. ten times more kicking than the thai import red bull, this energy drink promises to give gym rats more than wings, whatever that means.
like any barely legal energy drink hawked in fitness gaga america, this juice contains guarana extract, a whole lot of it.
guarana is an indigenous brazilian amazon shrub that bears lasciviously red round berries. as they ripen, the berries split open and disgorge black seeds that look like eyes of an inveterate ogler. you could imagine the legends the native indians would make up about these lewdly looking pips.
huffing on a bench across my machine, an overly tattoed latin playa kept on rearranging his package every time he's done with pressing 210lbs. this while grinning at me. one of his incisors clad in gaudy gold leaf.
at first blush, i thought he was doing it for the viewing pleasure of some bootylicious chula behind me. but then I realized, to my maria clara embarassment, i was the only one in my corner.
besides being an all around tonic, guarana is also reputed to be an aphrodisiac at best or at the very least, a vasodilator. guarana is potent, alright, but mercurially potent. sure it launches you to heights. but then, at moments never to your desire, grounds you down, an octane dry jet.
after doing ten more heaves, my chulo hit the showers.
i only realized it now. this story had nowhere good to go once I started using possessive pronouns indiscriminately.
bravely, I took the stall right across my inked hombre. as the initial cold spurt of the water slapped my back, I almost fainted from knowing I made again a fool of myself.
this is maybe why my friend always beseeched me never to imbibe anything alcoholic or mind altering in a joint where the idea of a dress code is that of tight tank tops and tighter bottoms.
I hurriedly wrapped myself in my suddenly shrunk bath towel and scurried out of the stall.
then I heard my playa, no, this playa, yo-ing me back. I refused to turn around fearing I would see him grinning again under the steaming column of water, his breath condensing like shimmering jet leavings in a clearing sky.