Miss Moneypenny and predictably Bond

The only places I go are the gym and to bed. I'm more habitual than a nun dress. (eh, pretty weak) I'm also cheap-o. Like a nun dress. (stronger) So when I learned there was another gym in town whose monthly costs were 1/3 of my current one's, it was aloha Just Fitness 24, and aloha Gym X.

Of course there's a blonde hot desk worker.

When I walk in for the first time to scope the place, she greets me.

Blonde Hot Desk Worker: "Hi can I give you a tour?"

Me: [witty response]

BHDW: [sheepish grin]

I couldn't have scripted it any better.

But obviously there will be no more chapters in this tale. Examine the evidence: she works at a gym; she works at a gym called "Gym X". To state the stereotype, both thermospherically high indicators of centuries-old craziness. But I'd be lying if I said I hated walking past her desk every trip to the gym. There exists, then, a constant tension. A perpetually fulcruming teeter-totter.

So she's Miss Moneypenny. And in this analogy I'm predictably Bond.

By the way I'd recommend all you Blahglievers get a real life Moneypenny. A little flavor for your vanilla days. Unless you like vanilla, which I do. Then she's vanilla on your chocolate days. Wait, this is turning racial. Flavor on your flavorless days.

Reeves out.

All Cougars Were Once Cubs

You know what a Cougar is. Demi/Ashton, not Bagheera/Mowgli. I think my hangout (the gym) is the Central Texas Cougar breeding ground.

So of course there's the blonde hot desk worker lady. Probably 25 years old. She greets members as they enter the facility and changes the trash bags. And she's hot. And until recently I thought that was the extent of her job description. Silly me. How foolish I was to think that this flaxen vixen wasn't up to something much more sinister. You see, where a Cougar preys on the younger man, this specimen (speciwoman?) seeks out the older, decrepit male population. She's a Cougar Cub. I noticed it for the first time last week. Then again twice this week. And finally again today. Four times is no coincidence. She's systematic. (I know this isn't the first ever case of young-lady/old-man, but this is so close to home. It's home-grown Cougarism) There's even a specific spot in the gym (the recumbent bikes) that she stakes out. She's like an actual cougar laying in the tall grass, waiting for some dopey dear at a watering hole. She waits for the old chap to settle in, break a light sweat, then she pounces. Sure, to the untrained eye it looks like they're having a pleasant conversation, but I'm not convinced. I refuse to believe that she's concerned about the patrons of her employer and that it is in her best interest to make sure they're comfortable. Bull.

While I can't technically substantiate any of these allegations (I always have headphones on. Angry gangster rap blaring. It scares me, and fear is a natural muscle builder. Read a book.), I'm working on my lip-reading skills. I'm still a novice but I think today Cougar Cub asked the unsuspecting fella (anything I write here will be misconstrued as inappropriate sexual innuendo so I'll take the high road and end the sentence now. Sicko.).

The only remaining chapter to be written in this story includes the tale where I, in a slip of the tongue, accidentally call her "Cougar Cub" to her face. Stay tuned.

The gym buddy, Czar Peter.

Confession: I'm a card-carrying member of a gym. I pay someone for the privilege of picking up their weighty objects. I realize any argument offered after that sentence can't be based on logic. But whatever, dude.

Two days ago, I was on the last rep of a superset of pushups when I was most surprisingly interrupted by a newcomer. A newbie to this gym.

"Three, four, five," I counted mentally, then stood up to find the love-child of John Madden and Wilford Brimley standing and staring about 8 inches away.

"I'll tell you what you need to do!" he trumpeted, as if training a schnauzer to sit. "Follow me!" He led me across the gym to a machine intended to make guys with no neck have even less of a neck. "You'll want to lean this way and push that way..."

He continued with the instructional monologue, but I was busy picturing a guy with a neck so small that his skull sat right atop his spleen...

Anyway.

"Thanks for the advice, Sir. I may try that next time. Sounds good."

And he walked away. Weird. But whatever. Gym guys are sort of like that.

Chapter 2. Yesterday evening I walk into the gym and I see Mr. Madden-Brimley. And this time he's full-on training a guy I know to be a lone wolf; a guy who talks to and knows nobody here. So I KNOW he doesn't know this new man. And Madden-Brimley is coarsely, I mean coarsely, coaching this dude. "Let's go Michael! Come on Michael! One more!! Two more Michael!! Squeeze it Michael!!"

Whoa.

'Michael' is standing in front of the mirror wall curling a bar on which Madden-Brimley is basically hanging. He's coaching the crap out of this guy he doesn't know.

But that's not even the best part. After 12,000 reps and some CPR, Michael was allowed a break. M-B goes into the diet advice.

"Looks like you might like to have a beer every now and then. That's OK, but if you can cut down on that, that's good. And the carbs. Cut down on the carbs, too. Breads, pastas, grains." I'm quoting as accurately as this keyboard will allow. Promise. There was a gym full of witnesses.

And it hit me- Take away the penchant for hard drinking and the pituitary giantism and Madden-Brimley is Czar Peter. This must be what it's like to just get taken over. A guy arrives on the scene and just runs things. There was a strange power in it all.

Needless to say, I've got to go; I have another training session in 15 minutes with Madden-Brimley.