Fear of Music, Gyms, and Buses

“Freeze Time Charlie” that’s what they’ll call me. “Freeze Time” for short. “Hey Freeze Time, Que Pasa Primo!” that’s what they’ll say when I walk down the street. I’ll point at them with my finger thumb gun and give a wink. Then I’ll throw my red hat in the air and everything will freeze frame. That will be my life. Everyday. You know why? Because whenever an attractive woman speaks to me—an unprovoked sentence which fly’s straight through unfiltered time and hits me smack dab on my unquestionably bemused forehead, the words take a few moments to travel from my forehead to ears and then to my brain (a brain by which is off somewhere reading “My Pet Goat”)—finally, after all this time, I think of something to say back. The perfect opening. The thing is. When I go to say it. I’m eating Chinese food with my parents while watching America Idol. Hours later.

In my first blog (two blogs ago) I mentioned how I blew it. You know, with the red head, glasses, free library chick. I had a similar situation at the gym. I was stretching…

Firstly, just to let you know, there are a lot of unwritten rules of the gym. I know mostly none of them. Whenever I go I feel like the new kid on the bus at a new school. Sure there are many buses and many schools, but like gyms, there are all slightly different... On some buses, the cool kids sit in the back, but other cool kids on other buses could possibly sit in the front. On that first day of school, in a new school, the bus ride is really the very first encounter you’ll have with the kids. “Ya can’t sit here” just plays in your head over and over again for every drowning moment you fervently wait at the bus stop… Some quick rules if you are 14, reading this blog, and have your first day at a new school coming up in September: If it appears that the loud pretty people are sitting in the back—these are the popular people—you want to avoid sitting too close to them. On the contrary, you don’t want to sit in the very first seat, the one directly behind the bus driver, next to the drooling fat boy wearing the DARE shirt non-ironically. The trick is that you have to look for the “Jenny” of the bus. You know, the pretty girl who wants to be a bird and fly far, far away but instead becomes a heroin addicted hippy who mothers Haley Jo-Osmond. Find her, she’ll let you sit next to her.*

Anyway, to a trivial degree, the same can be said about going to a new gym—in the sense that there are rules—rules which are common in every gym, but yet slightly different in each and any gym across the country. Does that make sense? Sometimes I can blabber on about things with long winded sentences that do not necessary follow the rules of “Eng-lish.” See, gyms are the school buses of adult life. The only thing different is that you won’t be directly made fun of, just smirked upon. When you are a kid and you do something wrong you’ll be ridiculed for the mistake until you’re like 18. I ate a fly in 1st grade and somebody brought it up a Senior prom. There I was, tux and all, sweaty palmed and hoping to later get some sort of intercourse-like activity, when a person came up to me and said, “Remember when you ate that fly in 1st grade, then you cried because you thought you contracted AIDS because flies come from Africa?” Things follow you around. Stories and whatnot. See when you are a kid you are allowed to make fun of somebody for things that they do, but in adult life you just get a bad look. And bad looks are what you get at the gym. And by you, I mean me.

One of the rules of the gym, like on the bus, is that if there are three machines and one person is using one machine and said machine is not in the middle of the three, you are suppose to leave that middle one open allowing a space between you and the person. So consequently, visualize this, it will go PERSON then OPEN MACHINE then YOU. If you are a guy, you understand that the same can be said about urinals in the men’s room. We are Americans; we have space limits or bubbles (if you will), if you don’t understand this concept you are either a European or a terrorist.

When you are a kid on the bus and smell a horrible, yet immediately identifiable stench of a fart it is like a 45 second Armageddon. Everyone goes nuts…for 45 seconds. Who did it? Was it you? It wasn’t me. It was him. (45 seconds later) It’s pizza night! Ah, to be a kid again. See, when you are an adult, instead of a harsh but quick reaction to a bodily gas, people quietly whisper about it for like three weeks. “Isn’t that the guy who farted in February,” the girl says to her lightly clothed friend. This is especially bad when you are not the one who actually passed the gas. See, I don’t mind if somebody farts, in fact I would commemorate their bravery, but what bothers me is when the person doesn’t come forward—leaving speculation from the newly arrived. If I’m running on the treadmill next to a man who just farted and an attractive woman enters the scene, she doesn’t know the guilty party; therefore she is to assume we both did it. This is not fair. Of course, as adults, we are not supposed to directly point fingers at strangers, so I found a reasonable method to let people know it wasn’t me. I will smell really loudly. I know this doesn’t sound good on paper (on this case, computer screen), but in reality it works. I sniff loudly and then give a sigh to let people around me know that I smelt it and I’m bothered by it. Why would I be bothered by my own farts? It’s un-American. Now if you are on the streets you can fart wherever and whenever you want because you are likely not to see the people you are around, but if you are a new gym and you fart the first week, you will be scolded with looks and thoughts until your contract runs out, which can be weeks to months.

So there I was stretching next to, but with some space in between, a really attractive woman. Now at the gym, it’s nearly impossible to strike up a conversation with a woman. They are either exercising or sweaty and self conscious. (Girls hate talking when they are not looking their absolute best/to me). When they are stretching, now that’s your window (pre-sweat, not currently exercising)...The woman and I were quietly stretching side by side when the club’s personal trainer came walking on by and accidentally kicked her plastic water bottle several feet. He turned to me and apologized respectfully. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Didn’t even see it there,” the broad shouldered man said. In which I then replied, “Oh it’s actually not mine, I think it’s hers.” She spoke up in a persuadably sexy manner, “It’s okay,” her tone slightly dove into an innocent sarcasm, “Oh no! Not my water plastic water bottle. How could you?” The three of us had a nice chuckle, then the trainer walked away leaving me alone with the woman. Now I could have said something jokily about water bottles or I could have said anything. Anything at all. I could have related it somehow to Barry Goldwater and it would have been better than nothing at all. She opened the door and I just stood right outside. Of course I smiled and chuckled to myself, but after that; nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Stupid sexy Flanders**. We continued stretching together, painfully hushed for several moments before she took off into the world of hot girlness.
I froze in the tundra of single life. Call me “Freeze Time Charlie.” My theme music can be track one of 311’s album “Soundsystem.” It’s funny how I can vigorously hit on women I have no interest in, but yet when a girl I like speaks to me, I become all Helen Keller. In the movies, at the end of the movie, the dorky guy wins over the attractive woman. I hate reality.

*If you didn’t understand this, you have ignored one of the best films of the last 25 years. If this is the case. What are you an idiot? You can read a stupid blog but you can’t watch Forest Gump. Shame on you. Shame on you, indeed. Stop what you are doing and watch that movie. It’s probably on TNT as we speak.

**Simpsons reference. I’m not sure what season, but it was the one where Homer goes Skiing. The thing about referring to the Simpsons is that most girls have no idea what you’re talking about. Ever meet a girl who can quote Simpsons lines? They are few and far between. No offense women. I mean, if you were to quote Opera or Hillary Clinton or (insert other famous women here), I wouldn’t know it either.***

***I’m just kidding, women.