Day 103: The Club Don't Eat S'Mores

There is a group of us men (mostly men go on the lunch hour) who regularly work out together.  I say "together" in the sense that we occupy the same generally space at the same general time.  We do not talk with each other, and we do not know each other.  (Actually, I do overlap a bit with a guy at work, but even we only share quick pleasantries when at the gym.)  Why are we not comrades who talk and enjoy each other's company?  Mainly because we are there to work, people!  We do not "chit-chat."  We do not "shoot the breeze."  We work; we sweat; we perform feats of strength.  (Okay, they perform feats of strength, I am merely along for the ride.)

To be honest, a few of them talk, but none of them ever talk with me.  This is, I believe, because I am not in the "Club."  The Club is made up of the beautiful people.  People who are buff and look amazing and do not have fat on their bodies (I am actually getting pretty buff and I know I look amazing, the problem is that there is so much fat on my body you can't tell, which is why the fat standard is so important to members of the Club).  In reality, I am an invader in their space, and I am sure they wonder why I am even trying.  Nevertheless, I think I am making some headway.  The other day someone told me that I was looking "better," which I took as a complement, even though I think I could have (should have?) been a little offended by it.

Anyway, these guys really take their bodies seriously.  The other day one of them had their shirt off for a little bit.  Now, please know that I do not generally stare at people (my mother taught me that that was rude).  Also know that, even if I do stare, it is almost never at bare-chested men.  I made an exception to all of my staring rules to look at this guy, and boy he looked great.  He wasn't one of these body-builder types, but he was just strong, and I thought to myself, maybe one day I will look like that.

I thought that again when I caught myself eating my fourth s'more late last night as Emily was off in another part of the house.  FOUR S'MORES!  I mean, come on, what on earth was I thinking?  I have no idea how marshmallows and chocolate ended up in the house, but man it is hard to resist when the marshmallows that have been purchased are the special kind that, after you look at them for a few minutes, grow eye balls and mouths and start saying things like:  "Come on Jeff, I am just one marshmallow.  I am mostly air anyway, nothing you can't handle."  And then, just as you lift the marshmallow up to your lips to take a bite, it stops you. "You know Jeff," it says, "over there on the top of the refrigerator is a bar of chocolate.  I am not going to tell you what to do, but I sure do taste better warmed up with a little chocolate.  Don't worry, just one won't hurt."  The problem is that first marshmallow has friends, and they don't think it is fair that their friend got to be eaten and they didn't.  They then appeal to my overdeveloped sense of justice and fairness, and plead for equity, which, ultimately, I grant.

The thing is, although I told no one--not even Emily--of my indiscretion, I think the members of the Club knew.  No one talked to me (which is usual), but they also gave me extra-mean strong-man eyes.  They were bothered when I was using a machine or a weight they wanted.  They brushed aside me in a "holier than thou" way.  It was as if they were saying, we knew you didn't have it in you.  You will never be part of us.  As I finished my workout, and headed for the showers, I seriously thought I heard one of the Club members say under his breath, "The Club don't eat s'mores."  Well, the Club might not, but I certainly do, or at least I did up until last night.