Dear Bike, My Bum Will Not Be Able To Make It Today….

Because my tailbone is temporarily out of business. And here’s why.

As I was bringing my laundry downstairs, I slipped on a sock.  A rolled up sock. A dirty, child-size, turned inside-out in a careless fashion sock. It didn’t mind that my big toe snagged it, and that my heel kept it from moving. It didn’t mind that I lost my balance and whoomped right onto my bum, sliding down 3 stairs before coming to a stop on the 1st stair from the bottom, still holding my laundry, and heaving the air in and out of my lungs. 

Stupid Sock. I just added it into the pile of laundry and was glad no one saw the grown-up fall. That was 3 weeks ago. And that sock has stayed with me every day since then, with my bum and back area getting worse and more sore each and every day. (I choose to blame that dag-blasted sock, and not the hard edge of the stairs. Go figure.)

So I now have a sore tailbone and bum, in general.  The doctor let me know I couldn’t wrap it up. (There is no cast for a bum, apparently. I asked.)  And no reason to get an x-ray because, lets face it, it would just be a pic of my bum with a sore tailbone. And nobody needs to see that.

The prognosis is officially, “strained tailbone and surrounding muscles.” A strained tailbone.  I would call it, however, “A pain in my …” Just sayin. So, recumbent bicycle that lets me sweat at 24 hr fitness…You will have to wait. 

I did try using you, if you will remember, just last week. Just 2 weeks after this happened. And, if you will remember, it looked like this:

A. Swagger into 24 hour fitness because, hey, I have a membership and that is what people do. They swagger everywhere in the building that they go. They swagger as they move from machine to machine. They swagger as they take a sip of loofah-enhanced energy drink. And, they swagger as they put in their secret number that allows them into the building in the first place.  So there was a swagger. A purpose. A meaning.

B. Look around hopelessly for a recumbent bicycle. This consisted of walking up and down the endless isles, again with purpose and swagger. (Heaven forbid people don’t know what to do, or where to go.) So looking around and walking with purpose ensued until, looking like a shiny, secret nugget of metal, there stood the bike of my dreams at that time. And that was you, bike. You were in a corner. Unoccupied. And no one was near you for at least 3 bikes away. (granted, the person using that bike was about 17 years old, looked like a model, and was pedaling at hyper-speed.) I took you gratefully.

Gym at Work 2 (Photo credit: The Killer Biscuit)

C. Looked at the you, bike, and then at the mandatory wipes, sitting 12 feet out of reach, and then back at you. Then at the wipes again, knowing that the minute I hoof it over to the magic wipes, someone will snag this prime property. But I must have wipes. You know, the wipes that are used to wipe away the previous person’s disgusting, hideous, copious amounts of sweat. At least, that is how it is portrayed. Those wipes sitting at every corner, except the one that is close to the machine you are using.  I run with a purpose to those wipes, bring back 4, and get back to the you, bike, just as Bertha, the 88-year-old work out queen zero’s in on my prize. I give her my “Back Off, ….” look and start to wipe you down.

D. Put in the paraphernalia that is a must for any gym rat: Cell phone with headphones. Enormous Jug of Water that just so happens to fit in the water bottle holder provided at the top of the machine. Car keys. Busy-Bug calorie counter (supposed to be on my arm 24hours/day but I get sweaty just thinking about the thing.) Half of a Kit-Kat.

Do you remember all those things? Well, it may be hazy because it is what every gym rat does. Or every aspiring gym rat does. (True gym rats don’t bring anything but their perky butt, their flat abs, and a book that they read as they use the machines for 4 hours straight.)

I got on you, bike, and started with my 5 minute warm up. I gingerly sat on you and started pedaling, and that was when I started feeling your betrayal. You asked me for my weight. Right out in the open. Blatantly asking how large I was so you could adjust accordingly.  I put my true weight in, but looked around to see if anyone was hovering over my shoulder with a clipboard or a youtube camera. Then I kept pedaling. And my bum started to hurt. “Push through the pain”, I thought.  It’s what you do at a gym.

I saw that people push through the pain by looking up at the 13 screens that are blaring every program from the Home Improvement Channel to Court TV. All blaring silently. I was supposed to plug my headphones into you, bike, and you would let me change the channel to the one TV channel that would let me forget that my thighs were burning, right along with my butt.  I opted to listen to my audio book instead.  

This listening of the book was what let me zone out for a bit, seeing nothing but the screens and gym bunnies that wandered around.

Gym bunnies…Women who carefully apply makeup and hair and nails in such a way that when they walk into the gym, their job is to turn the heads of the sweat-soaked men that they are interested in. Never do they do real reps or cardio. Never do they cause a bead of sweat to mar their makeup. Their job is to go from station to station, looking like they came from the station before and just happen to run into the buff man straining his pecs and looking like an early Arnold Schwarzenegger.

This was all entertaining until I felt a sharp pain in my bum and realized it was you. I was sitting on your hard seat, and you were not yielding in any way whatsoever. I glanced at the clock, by the way, to see how many hours I had sat on you, as I was sweaty and disgusting. Your clock said exactly 7 minutes and 13 seconds.

Traitor.

So I stopped this agony, picked up my plethora of items, and kicked you by the pedal. That was me. The one that kicked you and walked away, with the next torturee grabbing for the wipes that would save them from my neglect and wetness.

I’ll see you in about 4 weeks.

-Sharon, beginner gym bunny. (I’m not wearing makeup to the gym, no matter what the gym bunny rules state.)

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