You may remember a few posts ago, where I briefly mentioned my disapproving feelings of the idiots who try to work out, but don't have a bone in their body that reflects their desire to do so. I don't have that many posts thus far, so it's not that hard to figure out which one it is. However, if you need more of a clue like Steve in Blues Clue's, look below.
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I'm a snob because when I say I'm going to work out, I in fact, work out. Right? I grab one of the million t-shirts I've acquired from 6th grade, throw on running shorts from TJ Maxx, a sports bra from Target, and hit the streets. I can say with pride, the nicest and most expensive thing I usually am wearing is my tennis shoes. Without them, it wouldn't be a fun experience. That's like showing up to a rodeo with a donkey. You need decent foot wear if you're pounding the pavement for miles (feel free to insert your own sexual joke here).

Everyone says they hate working out, and it has to be earth shattering news to hear that I'm also one of those people. WOAH, hold the phone. I'll admit I'm athletic, and played plenty of sports until college, however, that was me in a setting where I was "playing" so to speak. I wasn't sitting on an elliptical, or running on a rubber band the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and becoming irritated that I hadn't moved in over 20 minutes (technically speaking). You'll grow to understand my need for forward motion in everything. Playing all those sports with my friends was physical work, but it felt like fun to me. What I nice perk. Then college came, and I realized the fun was over. I had reached the point of no return, where I would have to start working out, in order to get my usual fill of physical exertion. Sex wasn't an option, since I was raised in the most polluted petrie dish with the highest STD rate in all of America. I'll pass on grass until the pastures are a bit greener. You think I'm kidding? Look it up, Douglas County, NE. Enjoy that fun read.

So onward and upward, I started running. Luckily, I met a girl in college who LOVED running and encouraged me to run a half-marathon with her my sophomore year. I did it, and it felt Amaze-Balls!!! Then, the inevitable happened and I HATED running immediately afterwards. I loathed it. I ran so much before the half-marathon, that I thought my feet would become nubs. So fast-forward to today, where I'm back to running again, for several reasons I won't go into. It's boring anyways. My like and dislike of running is something I'll never pin down. Sometimes I really look forward to it, and other days I force myself to do it, despite my lack of desire. Regardless of my feelings of running or working out, I still motivate myself to work as hard as I can, while I've got my running shoes on. Here's my point, I promise.

This idea that many women have about working out baffles me. It was pretty obvious in college, but since moving to Fort Worth, I'm noticing it on an extreme level. Working out isn't necessarily about getting hopped up on your endorphins and feeling FAB-TAB-ULOUS, rather, it's more about how you look while doing it (insert second sexual joke). HUH??? I don't get it???

Lululemon is all the rage in Texas for your workout attire needs. Did I mention it's $$$$$. If you're not dressed to impress in your bright colored half-zip sporty top, and black yoga pants to your calves, you're not looking the part. I encountered probably ten women, who fit the description of a robot and model for Lululemon, while running today. They were all moving at a glacial pace and in no particular hurry to exert much energy. While I on the other hand, was sweating buckets in a grey t-shirt and crummy running shorts, while these ladies sauntered by me in nothing less than the above description. I was given odd looks if you can believe it. OH MY, it's a girl who's actually running and not wearing the socially acceptable attire, let's all GASP!!

I saw two identical looking women, walking their babies in identical color coordinated strollers, wearing an identical outfit in different colors. Oh damn, I was hopping to say identical one more time, it was that amusing to me! They were clones from head to toe! My gag reflex about kicked in when I spotted them. They stopped, stared, and waited for me to pass, before they continued on their less than impressive walk around the block. Did I mention designer sunglasses are a must. I'm not hating on taking your infant on a sweet little walk around the block, but those ladies are asking for my ridicule, when they put off that much of an austere stench.

I thought I was plucked out of reality and thrown into the movie Pleasantville, where everyone acts the same. It could even be compared to a real life moment on Wisteria Lane. It was creepy as all get out, and made me realize, that all these housewives are drinking some spiked Kool-Aid! Fill my cup up pronto, I need the Jungle Juice!

Keeping up with the Joneses has a meaning far beyond my comprehension in Texas. It can't be taught to an outsider, that's for sure. If you don't follow the pack, they'll spit you up and feed you to their children. Ok, maybe I've finally reached the point of over-exaggeration.

I'll leave you with this final thought. Why go to all the effort to buy the clothes, put the clothes on (it's not easy to get your body into spandex hugging clothes, no matter your size), get yourself to a gym, walk out your front door, etc., if you're not going to workout???!!! What a waste of time, energy, and effort. Once the clothes are on me I'm working out, no if's and's or but's about it. My focus is to make myself feel like a grinning asshole as I jam to my tunes down Wisteria Lane, not to look chic to the neighborhood passerby's. That's reserved for the many runway shows of fashion week for the petite, and compact I get to strut for. In my dreams... I digress, by the end of my run I hope I'm a smelly, sweating, greasy, grimy, hot mess, that needs to be hosed-down to even walk into my front door. If I don't look or feel that way, then I'm doing something wrong.

I have one thing to be thankful for, and that is none of those women will ever approach me. My alien-like characteristics and foul smells keep them at bay. I can guarantee they'll keep starring and I'll keep grinning, as I bolt by them in one of my countless Husker t-shirts.