The Bottom Line

I wore a pink shirt to the gym the other day and one of my friends complimented me on it.

Me: "Oh, thanks. It's old and it kind of shrunk up. But... hey. Thanks."

My Friend: "Why do people always say that? It's always, 'This is old' or 'I paid two bucks for this.'"

Me: "Yeah, really. Next time someone says they like something, I should be like, 'Thanks, I paid $150 for it at Nordstrom.'"

My Friend: "Then they'll just look at you like, 'What a jerk.' And they'll walk away thinking, 'What's her problem?'"

I cracked up -- because it's so true! Why can't some of us just say "Thanks" without a qualifier?

My college roommate was the first person I knew who regularly discounted her purchases. I'd compliment her purse or her shirt and she'd say, "Five bucks at the flea market."

I had never been to a flea market. Correction: I had been to a flea market once, got scared by the amount of junk piled around people's cars and begged my dad to leave.

My roommate, on the other hand, went to an "Indoor Flea Market," which was really a gigantic building that housed everything from pickle purveyors to vendors selling gold-by-the-inch. And, indeed, many items seemed to be about $5.

Cut to today. Tell a woman you like the crackers she serving at her party, she'll tell you she got two boxes cheap at Christmas Tree Shops. Compliment somebody's shoes, and she'll say she found them on clearance. I knew someone having a cool pool installed and the wife said, "Well, we'll be eating mac & cheese for months because of it."

Notice these examples were all women. Men don't seem to do this. First of all, guy's don't compliment each other's shoes or crackers.

Guy 1: "Hey, man, these crackers are amazing."

Guy 2: "What's wrong with you?! The game's on! ...Are you doing 'shrooms again??"

No, men say things like, "Is that a new car?"

Guy 2: "Damn straight. I don't even want to tell you what I paid for the upgrades. Totally worth it though to be able to check Facebook hands-free."

Guy 1: "For real? I gotta get that."

A woman in the same situation? "I don't even want to tell you how much mac & cheese we'll be eating for the next year!"

Bustin' a Move... Or Not Really

I went to the gym on Thursday, Friday and Sunday. I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself.  Two Zumba classes and a kickboxing class.  I am woman, I thought.

Then, I go on Facebook and see one of my high school friends is going to be in an Ironman competition in Kona, Hawaii.  I was wondering, “Hmm, I wonder if that’s, like, a big deal,” because his wall post just said, “Kona!”  At first I thought he was talking about his morning coffee, but all his buds were like, “You rock!” “You worked hard for this, you deserve it!”

So, I Google up Kona Ironman and it’s something like THE HARDEST TRIATHLON IN THE WORLD — “2.4-miles of swimming, 112-miles of biking, and a 26.2-mile marathon run through tough ocean waves, and challenging lava-covered terrain.”

Talk about feeling like I just got flicked in the forehead.  I’m sitting here, all “I’m not a national obesity stat… yet — so booyah to me” and “I’m not on heart, cholesterol or blood pressure meds yet — so chalk one up for The Cath!” (that’s right, I was feeling so good it was NFL-like, third-person reference time), and here’s my friend Eric in an Ironman.  KONA Ironman.

It would be easier to swallow this news if he was a single guy, living with the ‘rents, jobless with nothing better to do but train all day.  But that’s not even it!  He commutes to a magazine job in NYC every day, has a wife, a daughter, a house to take care of.  And the phrase, “Back in ’82″ is more than just a “Napoleon Dynamite” reference; it’s when we graduated high school!!  So, I’m like, “Daaammmmnnnn!”

At this point, rather than berate myself for not having Ironman energy that inspires 70-mile morning bike rides in freezing temperatures… or whatever!… I mentally gave myself two options:

• Option One: Get more mojo by drinking more morning joe.
• Option Two: Crank up the ol’ metabolism by launching a coke snorting habit.

Since I didn’t like the idea of running to the loo any more than coffee already has me in there, Option One: DENIED.  And since I don’t cotton to the idea of a cocaine-induced heart attack, serving jail time or giving my kids any more bad examples or ammo to use against me, Option Two: DENIED.

That brought me to Option Three: Stop the crazy talk and just tear into frat-housesized bags of Fritos and Snyder’s Buffalo Wing pretzels, get cozy in a corner of the sofa and call it a day. Of course, that would have me growing out of my clothes in no time, thus mandating a clothes shopping trip — and who has the energy for THAT?!

Maybe I’ll just buy some Kona coffee, get my ass to Zumba and take it from there….

Don't Mess with the Wo-man

So I belong to Female Fitness, a women's only gym in my town.

It's great because you don't have to listen to men sounding like they're herniating themselves with the free weights.  And you don't have to feel self-conscious about looking like three shades of shit before, during and after a workout, as I tend to.

The only males that frequent the place are usually pre-school age and heading for the baby-sitting room.  Rare is the moment when a man enters, and then it's usually only to check on the plumbing or air conditioning.  They carry a tool box, are escorted by one of the associates and keep their heads down.

Last week, however, a man -- a dad-and-husband-type man -- was standing in the middle of the gym, looking around.  Appreciatively.  Which his wife didn't seem to appreciate.

Wife: "This is a women's only gym."
Man: "Okay."
Wife: "So... you have to leave!"
Man, continuing to take in the view: "It's not illegal for me to be here."
Wife: "Just GET OUT!"

Not one other club member took pause or even gave their exchange a first glance, nevermind a raised eyebrow.  You know why?  If Chuck E. Cheese is where a kid can be a kid, then a women's-only gym is where a woman can be a woman.  We're not waiting on anybody, we're not cleaning something, we're not soothing somebody.  And we're definitely NOT on display trying to impress anybody!

Which reminds me: the dude that was crackin' wise about my Zumba ability?  I have to go lay down the law with that 4-year-old.