Thursday, November 11, 2010

why i hate the goddamned gym.

because my thigh teeth destroy all of my yoga pants? POSSIBLY. (you smartass.) but mostly because of a lot of other stupid shit. i was at the gym monday afternoon and got pissed off, like, seventeen different times. why is the gym always so damp and hot? why are the other people there so nosy and weird? why is the water fountain always lukewarm? why are there NINE busted treadmills?! blarf.

so my crohn's relapsed a week ago in SPECTACULAR fashion. what a fucking bummer, man. despite almost insurmountable evidence to the contrary, lately i have been conducting myself like a person who has something to live for. that means less beer, fewer tacos, and more things that require dirt and/or sunlight for survival. physically i've been feeling as good as someone who hates being upright for longer than twenty minutes at a time can feel. kate and i go GROCERY SHOPPING every other week, i threw out all the menus in my delivery drawer (including apart's, which makes me sad because i love that artichoke and champignon), i drink three liters of water a day while taking 723 pills, and i make use of that gym membership i exchanged my soul for six years ago. obviously i should have just kept getting drunk and eating shit out of trash cans, because monday i had a salad and tuesday i was in the emergency room.

tuesday morning i woke up with a belly full of the bad pain, then was pretty sure i was going to shit myself on the train. i didn't, but i got to work and turned green and vomited down my shirt while listening to this woman complaining about her stupid dog. hospital time. my bitchin' friend jen met me in the ER, which was almost full to capacity. on a fucking tuesday morning. there's the real evidence that the economy is shit and no one has health care. eleven a.m. on a tuesday and i have to sit and wait? bitch, please. that's why i go to northshore evanston university enh hospital or whatever the fuck it's called these days, so i can get five star treatment. if i wanted to keel over in the waiting room i'd go to the county. i registered immediately (i don't even have to give my full name anymore before the woman at the desk is like, "samantha, right? here for abdominal pain?") but then sat for half a fucking hour waiting to be triaged. jen tried her best to distract me by talking about bartending and blowing shit up (she does explosives and stunts for fancy movies), and i might have been okay if i hadn't looked at the dude with the nearly severed thumb across the room. the minutes he moved the towel he was holding to show the nurse his bloody had i knew it was over.

jen took one look at me and said, "you're going to throw up" and i nodded and got up and walked in the wrong direction to the bathroom, which meant i was standing like an idiot in the middle of the goddamned hallway when i vomited. EVERYWHERE. jen shoved a puke bag in the middle of the spew while i tried not to get bloody salad and string cheese on her shoes then went to get a box of kleenex. barfing is so fucking horrible. especially public barf, when people are staring and totally grossed out by you. and the maintenance lady was super fucking salty that i got a liter of water and wilted lettuce all over her pristine floor. how did i know? because even though all of my insides were now on the outside, it was so goddamned busy that i had to go BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM. what kind of shit is that?! usually vomit is like a get out of jail free card; one drop of puke and a bed magically opens up. not so. i had to go back and sit with the regular people with vomit mouth that tasted like old cheese with wet feet because i'd had to go to the bathroom and rinse out my godamned plastic shoes.

it wasn't any better after i got a bed. the attending (who i've had many times before) came in and asked me to self-diagnose ("minor crohn's flare up, abdominal pain and inflammation") and script myself ("two bags of sodium chloride, a dose of zofran, a big shot of prednisone, and a healthy bump of dilauded"), then he listened to me breathe and pressed my belly four times before saying, "you're right. sounds good. i'll order everything for you," and straight BOUNCING. (sidenote: i should totally go to medical school, right?) a few minutes later the nurse came in and told me that my IV and i were being moved into the hallway. to make room for someone sicker. or more important. as if there's such a thing.

what the fuck kind of shit is this? i really am TOO GODDAMNED FANCY to be treated like some sort of common person. in the HALL?! thank horus i kept my fucking pants on and doubled up my gown. for christ's fucking sake. pffft. so some nurses came in and wheeled me into the hall before propping me up and unloading a bunch of syringes into my arm. god, i love that legal heroin. it feels so good. jen was excited because she thought we might get to see some gross or  scary shit coming in on a stretcher, but there wasn't much except a pantsless screaming toddler who kept running to the communal bathroom and a crazy lady who had two police officers posted up outside her door. less thrilling than you think.

needless to say i got out of there the second the last drop of fluid went through my catheter. AND AFTER THEY RAN MY CREDIT CARD. is this obamaconomy really like THAT?! after the nurse hooked up my second bag this black woman in street clothes came over to me carrying a clipboard, and before i could say, "no, bitch, i'm not registered to vote in this district!" she handed me some papers and said, "would you like to take care of your copay at this time?" holy fucking shit. we must need to get some white people back in power, because this has never happened to me before. i was like, "i guess so?" and she said, "great. that'll be $150." i obviously need some new fucking insurance. that whore gave me a look that said "NO TAKEBACKS" and held her hand out for my card. i guess my black ass has run out of benefit of the doubt. these dudes want their money UP FRONT. i'm sure there is something unethical about asking a person who is blasted out of her mind on narcotics to make important financial decisions, but lucky for her i was too wasted to object. the whole thing was rifuckingdiculous. i shut off the IV 7 times while trying to sign. total comedy of errors.

i'm fucking stubborn and lazy, but these little dalliances with death always scare me straight for a few weeks at the very least. and since i hadn't fallen that far from grace to begin with, i felt less like an asshole when i got back home. usually i get home from the hospital and embark upon a guilt-ridden cleaning spree, throwing out all the blocks of fancy cheese and six packs of beer that have mysteriously ended up in my refrigerator. ("i don't know who put that in there!") but all i had to do this time was toss that lettuce (FUCK SALAD) and some expired rice pudding that i can't promise i wouldn't have eaten if i'd been desperate enough. oh, shut up. and i can't say i haven't removed something delicious from the garbage before and eaten it (oh, fuck you), so i took it down to the dumpster where some homeless person who likes fine french cheese could find it. then i called the russian and told her to meet me at the gym.

god, i fucking hate the gym. it stinks and it's full of assholes who fart while they're on the elliptical in front of yours. balls, man, fucking BALLS. anyway, that little mean-ass lesbian was doing one arm push ups at the top of the fucking stairs when i got there, using her dick like a kickstand when she stopped to make sure that i hadn't cheated and taken the elevator. (just kidding, she was standing and looking annoyed. but i like my version better.) then she made me get on the treadmill for an hour while she watched and ate a sandwich. bitch.

the gym makes me feel like a perverted homo. why do chicks get out of the shower or the sauna and then take their sweet fucking time sitting on that grody bench drying their hair or putting lotion on or whatever? why? why do you bitches do that? because when i walk in there to take a shit or collapse on the floor near my locker I CAN'T HELP STOPPING AND STARING AT YOUR GIANT AREOLAS AND WRINKLY TACO. seriously, i can't tear my eyes away. why do you have to do that? there's an area by the shower, away from me and the king sized bag of peanut butter m&m's i hid beneath my gym bag, in which you can dry yourself off and get dressed in relative privacy. i mean, these hoes really have to WORK to show off that smelly vag. out of the shower, across the slippery floor, and out to the locker room area where i'm trying to massage that "i don't exercise regularly enough" cramp out of my right side. they don't even care, wantonly rubbing that damp cottage cheese against the side of my head as i'm tying my shoe while they reach over me to retrieve their clothes from the locker above mine. can i get thirty seconds, bitch? go change in the bathroom like the rest of us prudes.

i feel like a suitable reward for a good workout is a pizza. i wish i had someone else's brain. not really, because everyone else is so painfully fucking stupid, but i wish i was the kind of person who could burn 2500 calories doing circuit training (that shit comes from SATAN) and then go home and feel satisfied eating an orange and a piece of boiled chicken. the russian and i were boxing a few weeks ago (me likey) and she told me how i was burning so many calories and working so hard blah blah blah and then i said, "how many beers does that mean i can have later?" and she rolled her eyes and dropped the pads and told me to go get my ass on the bike. every time i work out with that bitch i either feel like retching so hard that my stomach comes out of my mouth or jumping in the dumpster behind a mcdonalds and eating everything that isn't moving. do you kids really work out and then go home to a sensible meal? the last thing i want to do is spray pam on a piece of broccoli and wash it down with a glass of tap water. i want something dead and barely cooked with a pint of beer next to it, not some shit that screams "responsible, health-conscious person." come on, man. I EARNED IT.

bitches are fucking nosy. i always feel like the local affiliate has started their morning show version of chicago's biggest loser or whatever everytime i walk in the gym. you assholes do NOT keep your eyes on your own fucking paper. even when i'm there torturing myself in peace and quiet i feel like everyone and his dirty uncle is staring a hole into my ass on the stair machine. i hate to break it to you jerks, but fat people are the ones who are supposed to be working out. YOUR skinny ass should be the one skulking on the rowing machine in the corner trying not to draw too much attention to yourself. that protruding clavicle has already told me everything i need to fucking know about your fitness goals; why in the fuck are you staring like i'm the one who's out of place? why are there always three and a half fat bitches in a gym full of toned motherfuckers? you healthy sluts should be out eating frozen yogurt and wearing clothes marketed for people with "an active lifestyle." at least you know what brought me in here, what the fuck is your anorexic problem? shouldn't you be sitting at home barely making a dent in that couch you never use instead of hogging the triceps machine i OBVIOUSLY need? get your tiny ass out of  my way, jerk.

gym etiquette is confusing to me. like, which machines do i have to wipe down? and how thoroughly wiped does it have to be? if i don't sweat all over it because i minimally exert myself, can't i just get off and go to the next thing? how long is too long to "rest" between sets? sometimes i see dudes sitting on the shit i want to get on for, like, TWENTY minutes just panting and slobbering. when can i tell them it's my turn? if someone has gone over the thirty minute treadmill time limit, at what point can i go get the security guard? why do people think it's okay to ask for the name of my tattoo artist while i am on my back trying not to die while doing chest presses? how come SO MANY people think it's appropriate to talk to me while i'm obviously on my last legs? case in point, monday i was doing some lateral arm raise bullshit, and this ugly dude sidled up alongside me and DRIPPED SWEAT ON MY LEG just so he could say, "that's a sweet grim reaper tattoo, doll." first of all, FUCK YOU. second of all, BLARF. my new tattoo really does totally fucking rule, but get your ass away from me. how am i supposed to count my reps AND fend off idiots? i'm only one person, damn!

men sometimes work out in micro shorts. one of these days i'm going to see some fucking balls. for cereal. i get it, you're sexy. and you'd be just as sexy, and probably 100% more comfortable, if you were wearing looser clothing. no one wants to see the outline of your puny dick while she's working out. put that thing away. ALSO, maybe you should rethink doing the ab machine while wearing those teenie things. i could do a fucking colonoscopy. chicks are gross, too, but i try not to shit so much on women. oh, maybe i should. .01% of the female population should be working out in sports bras and spandex shorts. sadly, this does not include you. so stop it. thank you.

i don't give a fuck about getting in shape, because i don't think that is a thing i could actually be considering my genetics and proclivity toward laziness. but i'm too poor for therapy and everyone i know swears by endorphins. plus, i need an excuse to keep drinking my fancy beer and eating my fancy cheeseburgers. god, i love being drunk. hic.