I went to the gym today. Mostly to get away from my editor and round two of her edits (I suck at punctuation). I thought I'd burn off some frustration and that jiggly crap around my knees too. I was ready to work out in peace.
No such luck. I was violated instead.
Now, I'm old enough to remember when shorty shorts for men were in style. I don't know what's sadder, that I'm so old, or that they were ever in style. Don't scoff. Look through your yearbook if you've conveniently forgotten. That's what I'm talkin' about. These days, even the most fashion challenged men have trashed those, or their wives have made sure they had an unfortunate accident. At any rate, it's a shock to the system to see some geezer in hot pants, legs spread, on a weight machine.
But there he was. I won't mention any names but his initials are, "my neighbor." I've seen him before, and I'll have to see him again. In those shorts, no doubt.
Turns out, my participles weren't the only things dangling.
The flip flops are bad too. Hello? It's the GYM.
Do you think it's on purpose? Does he think he's hot? Is 1970 calling?
I wasn't impressed, to say the least. Let's put it this way...
He's no Rob Rhino.
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES