I went to the gym this morning, really just a ploy so I won't feel quite as guilty as I shovel fried wings, mozzarella and perhaps even ice cream into my cake hole at the What-Else-Can-We-Possibly-Batter-And-Deep-Fry Party that I'm going to this afternoon. Really. R bought a burner that hooks up to a large propane tank for the purposes of beer brewing (his new obsession -- I mean, hobby), and it came with a cast iron pot, fryer and thermometer. The first two days he had it, I gained five pounds.
Oh, there will also be some football game on.
So as I walked up to the gym, iPod loaded with This American Life podcasts and Hemmingway's "A Moveable Feast" under my arm, I noticed how packed the parking lot was. Apparently I wasn't the only one planning to overindulge.
Ahead of me, a 60s-ish woman in a sporty jacket with a short-cropped, dyed orange hair was walking out of the gym.
"Getting in better shape!" She chirped at me approvingly. "It's a good thing!"
Um, what? Was it that obvious that I haven't been a regular at the gym? Do people really look at the people walking into the gym in running pants that appear to be a little tighter than they need to be, and say, "Good for you, fattie!"
Of course, thinking on it now, I realize she could have been referring to herself, not me.
Whatever. As long as I earn those wings and beer.