Treadmills and Cocks

So yesterday I was welcomed into the hard, chiseled arms of New York Sports Club. That’s right, I went. To work out. I have now joined the sleek, elite urbanite crew that jet set around town with a gym bag and deodorant in tow. I’ll get big protein shakes and drink things called “Muscle Milk” and eat little food bars. The gym shall feed and nourish my soul. I will refuse social plans because I’ve got a date with some free weights. You can call me but it’ll go to voice mail because I won’t be able to hear the ring over the whirring in my spinning class. If you’re on 41st between 7th and 8th, you may pass by and see me through the window, on the Elliptical, and you may knock on the glass and try to say hello, but I won’t respond. Because I’m at an invitation-only party to which only myself, my endorphins, and Kelly Clarkson are guests.

That’s right. I’m gonna look fuckin’ Nicole Richie good.

And then I fell off the treadmill.

You heard me. Like Lucille Ball in her prime, before that lackluster follow-up series. I turned to tell Dave something (he was on the treadmill next to me), and before I knew it I was on the ground.

The gym rejected me. The gym, as a facility, as a notion, rejected me. It spit me off of its signature machine. This doesn’t bode well. When I got home I noticed my leg had actually been bleeding. Bleeding! I haven’t bled in years. I decided I could call it a sports injury, right?