I hung around work until about 730 last night to avoid the after-work swell at the gym. It's not that I don't enjoy scoping out the eclectic and unpretentious, mostly middle aged midtown NYSC scene, I do. For sure. But I'd rather the sprint in the locker room not be the quickest thing I do in the 52 minutes I spend checking off a workout on my (non-existent) calendar o'will power(lessness). Predictably, when I got there, I had my pick of all the choicest corners (in the locker room) and there was hardly a machine in motion that wasn't next to two lifeless ones. Wiiiiide berths, empty locker room, well played, Case, well played.
Fast forward through a falling out with a treadmill, a blossoming romance with an elliptical, and an awkward embrace with an exercise ball, and I'm heading back to that aforementioned, empty-save-the-chatty-cleaning-lady locker room. But what is this? In the studio tucked in the back of the basement, by the free weights and the cycling room (really? a whole room for that?) there's an explosion. Color, chanting, stomping, flashes of silver... at almost 9pm? I look closer and find a shortage of shirts and an overwhelming ratio of booty shorts to booties in the air and then BAM - circling, chanting, what are those? what are THOSE? POM POMS?!?!
I've been caught staring at the fray right about now so I head back to the locker room to shower. It dawns on me IN THE ACTUAL SHOWER... They were circling up. They were chanting. They had their pom poms in the air, their kicks around their necks and their eyes closed as they strained to out-screech each other -- they were ENDING their 'SESSION'! (oh no, I will never refer to that as practice.)
Fuck.
Then it starts. As I'm turning off the water of my shower I hear the first of the pom poms ruffle into the locker room. The walk back to my corner would not go as I planned - and I definitely didn't plan for this. I planned on skirting around the cleaning lady in boxer briefs. I did not plan on bobbing and weaving through fifteen to twenty JETS cheerleaders all hopped up on team spirit and forced enthusiasm just to slip into a corner where I would stick clothes to my body in what I would HOPE to be the right order just to slink out of the joint like a shoplifter lifting imagery.
Long story short... three things.
1) The Jets are colluding with Hooters to keep the tan stockings + white sneakers + booty shorts combo in fashion. (And I'm pretty sure they're both getting underpaid, can NO ONE afford a shirt these days??)
2) Yes, it's true. Cheerleaders squeal when they shower. Irrefutable evidence. They squeal and they laugh and they skip around locker rooms in nothing but a bottom towel. I'll die happier knowing this.
3) So there I was with the entire Jet's backup cheerleading squad (backup because I overheard them talking about 'making it to the big leagues' and, also, I'm sure the varsity squad trains at Equinox), bobbing and weaving through the gaiety, and as I reached to collect my double D's around an especially tight turn, it hit me...
They aren't called the B-squad fer nuthin'.
...
There are other dreams, lad, there are other dreams... *sniff.
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