The f**king gym...
…again!
An exercise in perversion this morning - swap changing rooms day! Maintenance (which, as we know = a bloke in trainers with a screwdriver and a whistle that could cut teak) means that the ladies and the gents swap changing rooms for the day.
Oh, the soaring sense of expectation as I walked to the door of the ladies changing room. What would be beyond the normally heavily defended door? Not, I trust, the basic wood, metal and smell of socks that is the chaps changing rooms (and long may it continue that way - we at the gym could teach those soft poofs the Spartans a thing or two about living rough - why I've even stopped using quite so much fabric conditioner on my towel), but rather some perfumed garden, a cross between a spa and a turn of the century cathouse.
As expected - crushing disappointment, it's just like the bloke's changing rooms - except for two differences. One - there are stools in front of the mirrors and area with hair-driers, which you don't get in the gents - surely another case of ladies doing something sitting down while men do it standing up. Secondly - there are signs directing you to the pool, and to the lobby…which you've just walked through! No signs in the men's locker room. Men, as we know, never need directions.
The only other difference of note…doors on the shower cubicles. What the hell is going on there? Frosted glass doors! The men's cubicles are exposed, all the better to keep n eye on your stuff and keep out a wary eye for willy watchers. Why would women have a door? Have these people not seen Psycho? Surely there's not one horror film, not one, where the slashing stalker wanders into a bathroom where there's no shower curtain or door - it's basic self-preservation, to avoid nutters who stalk in bathrooms, have nothing against which they can throw an eerie silhouette.
Finally - was first in pool this morning! Got to break the water. Excellent.
An exercise in perversion this morning - swap changing rooms day! Maintenance (which, as we know = a bloke in trainers with a screwdriver and a whistle that could cut teak) means that the ladies and the gents swap changing rooms for the day.
Oh, the soaring sense of expectation as I walked to the door of the ladies changing room. What would be beyond the normally heavily defended door? Not, I trust, the basic wood, metal and smell of socks that is the chaps changing rooms (and long may it continue that way - we at the gym could teach those soft poofs the Spartans a thing or two about living rough - why I've even stopped using quite so much fabric conditioner on my towel), but rather some perfumed garden, a cross between a spa and a turn of the century cathouse.
As expected - crushing disappointment, it's just like the bloke's changing rooms - except for two differences. One - there are stools in front of the mirrors and area with hair-driers, which you don't get in the gents - surely another case of ladies doing something sitting down while men do it standing up. Secondly - there are signs directing you to the pool, and to the lobby…which you've just walked through! No signs in the men's locker room. Men, as we know, never need directions.
The only other difference of note…doors on the shower cubicles. What the hell is going on there? Frosted glass doors! The men's cubicles are exposed, all the better to keep n eye on your stuff and keep out a wary eye for willy watchers. Why would women have a door? Have these people not seen Psycho? Surely there's not one horror film, not one, where the slashing stalker wanders into a bathroom where there's no shower curtain or door - it's basic self-preservation, to avoid nutters who stalk in bathrooms, have nothing against which they can throw an eerie silhouette.
Finally - was first in pool this morning! Got to break the water. Excellent.
1 Comments:
I don't think there is anyone left who is worried about getting murdered in the shower. I realize I'm wandering off of the point, but I think about those stories of the guy hiding underneath your car waiting to slash your ankles so that when you bend down in pain he can have his way with you and steal your car.
I think the fogged glass is to protect younger women from killing themselves should they realize that the older women have breasts that hang down to their kneecaps after years of jogging before the invention of the sports bra.
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