Nude by Christmas

38 years old, 102kg. One of those numbers is about to change.

Archive for the tag “hotels”

Train dirty… but wipe up your wet spots

If you find yourself in a room full of people wearing very little, grunting, moaning and sweating profusely, either pray you’re in a gym, or be prepared to throw your keys in a bowl and use protection. Apart from a swingers’ club – or the vinyl floors and walls of a very ‘open’ couples’ bedroom – there are very few places as rawly and fleshy as the floor of gym.

Over the past week or two, my gym has become increasingly popular. While I could put this down to my attendance attracting people, that would be just plain wrong. It’s just a small little place, out in the ‘burbs, nestled between apartments, a drive-thru coffee joint and a fast food store. The irony is not lost on me. I go there at night, usually after ten, and usually after everyone else has gone home to bed – perhaps to get sweaty in another way.

But lately there are more people there. Like lots more. What are these people doing at the gym at ten o’clock at night? (And, incidentally, what’s that guy doing wearing a sun-visor in a gym at ten o’clock at night?). Don’t they get that this is my space, my time and I don’t particularly want to share with them?

I’ve always been cool with sharing. I played marbles as a kid and managed to share my tom thumbs and snake eyes with Dean and Eddy and Daniel and Mark – my playground buddies. I’ve lived in a share house. I’ve bought shares. I’ve even listened to Cher. But sharing at the gym… well, that’s different.

When you go to a hotel, you expect that the couple in the room before you had likely used the king-sized bed as their workbench for however long they occupied the room. Likewise the shower, possibly the bathroom vanity, the bedside table, the lounge chair in the corner, the desk with the internet port and, potentially the window sill. You also expect that housekeeping has come along and changed the sheets, wiped down all these surfaces and provided fresh flowers to disguise the smell. Don’t you?

In a gym – while it is hoped people only secrete sweat from their pores, not other fluids from other oriffices – it comes (if you’ll pardon the pun) about as close to a B&D dungeon as a public space can become. So what do people do to mop up their mess once they’ve splashed all over the place? Wipe it with a towel. WTF? You want me to trust that a quick wipe of a bench with your (stinky looking) towel is enough to make me feel comfortable about going to lie in your wet spot? Forget it. No, not even if you’re the hot chick with the butt expertly squeezed in to the virtually see-thru yoga pants. Although…

I am kidding. I think.

I live less than two minutes from my gym. I finish my cool down, pick up my stuff and head straight home to the shower. I haven’t even set foot in the shower at the gym. It looks clean in there, but for showers – just like humans – if you spend a lot of time with a lot of different naked people… you’re likely to be carrying some kind of bug.

Anyway, the only athelete’s foot I want to play tootsies with is one at the very end of a long, tanned leg belonging to a brazilian beach volleyballer.

Advertisements

Calories and Craps: Vegas, Baby!

72 hours in Vegas is enough, more than enough, to understand everything that’s wrong in the world.

When the fattest people on the planet are not at Disneyland devouring turkey legs the size of an ostrich, they are in Vegas, waddling their way along the strip from one resort monstrosity to the next, bucket of margarita in hand, leaving one free to accept the flicked card of a hooker slipped into a greased palm by some random on a street corner. It can safely be assumed that Occupational Health guidelines would require all hookers to ride reverse cowgirl style while in flagrante delicto so as to avoid being crushed under the weight of their mega-clients.

But I digress…

There are no kids in Vegas – they’ve either all been swallowed whole by their obese parents, or locked into a kids’ club somewhere, parked in front of Playstation, where they will learn to be sedentary… and lazy… and get used to the blinking, flashing, beeping sounds of screens, that will later translate into gambling addictions. To go along with their food addiction. The one family I did see was propped up against the counter of a hamburger bar, oozing cheese down there chins and making regular trips back to the soda fountain to top up their Hoover Dam sized drinking vessels (which flashed, incidentally).

The mega high-roller gamblers that hit town in their corporate jets and Hummer limos are commonly referred to as ‘Whales’. The name would be a good one, if it weren’t for the fact that almost everyone in Vegas is the size of a whale. But these whales are whales because of the size of their wallets. Their ability to swallow big wins or losses, not just Big Macs. You don’t see them on the street, they are shuttled in via chopper to the roof tops of the faux castles/pyramids/skyscrapers that make up the hotels of this very, very strange town. Once inside, they either drop more money than your entire extended family will make in their lifetime, or rip the shirts off the backs of the casino mogels daring to take them on. Then they will eat and drink like the rest of the crowd. Only more. And in private. And at great expense.

The hotels themselves are almost as big as the people. Mine was a grotesque reproduction Italianate palazzo. It was claimed by some of the guest I spoke to, to be “even better than Italy”. Better in a worse kind of way, I would argue. But then this guy would know. I mean he had stayed at The Venetian on a previous visit – so he was full bottle on la dolce vita, Vegas style. Not that he’d been to Italy. The real Italy. Why bother? When Paris is just next door…

Well, mini Paris. To say that Vegas doesn’t do things by half is just plain wrong. The Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel, Las Vegas is only half the size of the real one. Impressive? In a Lego kind of way…. But don’t worry, they double the cheese to make up for it. And the queues around the corner of the all-you-can-stuff-in-your-gob buffet (hey, that’s French!) are only bested by those at queuing, soda and candy in hand, to pay a mint to see the lithe, athletic, sexy bodies in a Cirque du Soleil show… Oh, Cirque du Soleil. Don’t even start me on Cirque du Soleil. Fast food theatre.

I feel dirty now. I gotta go run.

Post Navigation