I can do that, too.

I’m a brand loyalist.

I only buy Diet Coke, won’t eat a salad without Wishbone Balsamic and Basil Vinaigrette dressing and I replace my white leather Keds with white leather Keds. I thank L’Oreal for my long lashes, Bare Minerals for my “flawless” complexion and Pantene for my shiny locks.

When I worked out religiously in the past, I always bought Nike apparel and shoes. They’re one of the few vendors that make a pant long enough for my 34" inseam and the athletic shoes fit me like a glove.

WHY I decided to go out and buy a pair of Avia shoes is beyond me. I suppose it was the pretty sale sign that clouded my judgement. Well, I wore them around the house and hated them. Back they went and I brought home a nice new pair of Nike running shoes.

I know what you’re thinking. Running shoes, Chrissy? Isn’t that a little ambitious?

Well, yes it is, my friends, but this is my fantasy, so shut it.

I headed to the gym last night, sporting an extra spring in my step, courtesy of Nike. I went much later than usual so it was easy to snag a treadmill since there weren’t many people there. As I stretched, I sized up my gym mates.

Two treadmills to the right was a large man wearing one of those silver sauna sweat suits. I’ve seen them in magazines but I’ve never actually seen anyone wear one in person. I would imagine that the fabric is nylon, as they tout the benefits of “sweating your way to a slimmer you”.


Sure, if you don’t pass out and die first. So far, Mr. Silverman looked like he was going to make it as he walked at a regular pace.

To my left, facing the opposite wall was a very large woman wearing white. White calf length pants, white shoes and a white top over her white sports bra. And she was jogging. I thought to myself, If she can do it, so can I!

Scattered around the room were some senior citizens up past their bedtime and some younger guys who were probably the ones who drove Grandma and Grandpa to the Y.



They limit you to 30 minutes on each piece of equipment so I started walking at a faster pace than normal to warm up because I wanted to start alternately jogging and walking tonight.

Since it was dark out, when I looked ahead, all I could see was the reflective image of myself in the mosaic of condensation and cracked glass that the fitness room’s windows provided. It was likely my shadowy silhouette that lulled me into thinking I actually looked pretty good when I started to jog. My new sports bra was keeping the girls in place and my yoga pants gave my legs a really lean look.

I glanced to my right, Keep going, Mr. Silverman, and all this could be yours someday.

I was feeling pretty impressed with myself when a tiny slip of a thing sauntered up to the treadmill between me and Mr. Silverman. She was probably about 25 years old, 5'3, cute as a button and skinny, even though she was wearing two layers of clothing. She started out walking so I, of course, had to continue jogging to show her up.

Game on, honey!

I realized I had pushed my limits when I felt the first bit of vomit coming up my throat so I opted to slow down to a brisk walk. As I gasped to catch my breath, Miss Tiny started to jog. I glanced over and disgustedly noticed that her ass was keeping pace with the rest of her body unlike mine that bounced uncontrollably wondering what the hell was happening.

Once again, I got the bright idea to start jogging. I increased the speed and hoped there was no one on the machines behind me to witness this.

Let's do this, chicky!

I looked at Miss Tiny's reflection in the window because it seemed rude to stare right at her. I saw her reflection unzip her hoodie and remove it to reveal a long sleeved tee. I had to look. It was like staring at the sun. I knew I should look away, but I couldn't. She had barely a glisten on her face while I worried that I might have splashed some sweat her way when I turned my head.

How do you not sweat?? It doesn't matter. I'll just keep going.

Five pathetic minutes later, I slowed to a walk again and Miss Tiny removed her long sleeved tee to reveal her perfectly petite body running like a gazelle in a racerback bra top. You heard that right.

It's a bra.

It's a top.




Crap.

Game over.