Thanks to a repetitive-stress injury in my foot, I'm off the treadmill and into a new gym this week. I hadn't been to a gym in over a year. Can't say I missed them a lick.
I was on the elliptical machine, bored out of my skull and wondering why on Earth people like those things, when I glanced around the room. It was the usual assortment of geriatrics, gym rats and moms that frequent area gyms during the daytime, with one exception: a stunningly beautiful girl behind me, smiling at me. Don't fall off the machine, don't fall off the machine, I thought as I tried to look a little more fit and a lot less epileptic.
20 minutes later, I looked around the room again, and this time the beautiful girl positively beamed at me. Wow, I mused, very pleased. I must look better than I thought.
I finished up, then went to the laundromat, store and bank before returning home. There, I undressed for the shower. I examined my old gym shorts. They had a five-inch split right up the butt crack.