>Who’s the ass here?

>I’m going to confess a tawdry and embarrassing secret. I have joined the ass-obsessed.

I’ve never been one to notice asses, particularly those belonging to women, but now that I’m back in the gym on a regular basis, my entire mood hinges on the asses bouncing on the treadmills directly in front of my elliptical machine.

Yesterday was a good day. As I sweated away in the back row, an attractive woman smirked in my general direction before hopping up on the treadmill. I checked her out from behind and snickered. That was one wide load she was hauling there. I sure wouldn’t be wearing those hotpants if that ass were mine! I glanced over at the woman next to here. Whoa. Wayyyyy too much wiggle on that ass. Thank God I wasn’t looking at that in the mirror every day.

Triumphantly, I continued stepping and even upped the level a notch. It was time for me to show these bitches how it was done. Yes, it was a good day to be working out. Because usually, I’m not so lucky.

I’m currently at war with a 90-pound freakling, a petite workout wonderwoman who doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her trim, toned little body. Worse, this woman even has the gall to exercise wearing only a jog bra and short shorts. From the first time I saw her, I knew she had to be stopped.

“Hey there,” I shouted after her as she started to leave the women’s locker room. “Hoo, boy, glad I caught you in time! I think you’re forgetting something!” Frantically, I rustled through my gym bag, pulled out a grape juice-stained, oversized t-shirt, and handed it to her. “I believe this gym has a ‘No shirt, no shoes, no service’ policy.”

She looked at me strangely. “I work out in this outfit all the time,” she said. “No one’s said a word.” She handed back the shirt.

“Probably they’re so shocked by your skimpy outfit, they can’t make their mouths move,” I squeaked, and cleared my throat. “Let me at least give you some of my old gym shorts. We wouldn’t want any of the men out there getting the wrong idea about you, would we?”

Recognition suddenly dawned in her eyes. Slowly, she walked in a circle around me, looking me up and down. “I get it,” she said. “You’re one of the ass-obsessed, aren’t you?”

“I am not!” I protested angrily, but it was too late. She had turned on one New Balance sneaker and left, not a jiggle or a wiggle anywhere in sight.

Damn her! I trembled. In defeat, I walked slowly out to the lines of workout machines and climbed onto my trusty elliptical. Directly in front of me, the 90-pound freakling jogged with an evil gleam in her eye. I couldn’t avoid staring at her ass as I plodded away. It was perfect. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Warily, I looked behind me. I was in the last row of machines, backed up to a plate glass window overlooking the parking lot. I noticed a small crowd forming outside, pointing at my ass and laughing uproariously. One woman was even shooting video of my ass with her camera phone. I tried to cover my ass with one hand and ended up losing my balance and hanging on for dear life to a machine handle. The crowd laughed harder.

Since then, I’ve encountered the 90-pound freakling nearly every time I’ve gone to the gym. Regardless of the time or day of the week, she’s there, running, right in front of my face. I wonder if she’s some kind of fembot designed especially for gyms to guilt people like me into keeping our memberships and hoping for brighter, 90-pound days.

Yet despite the irritation she’s causing me, I’m not going to give up on my workouts this time. Because if I have to be an ass about other women at the gym, at least I’ll be one that’s cellulite and joggle free.

*Thanks to MommaK’s Jazzercise admission for reminding me of my own gym nemesis.