We’ve all heard horror stories about the men’s locker room. It is almost a staple in stand-up comedy. Old men walking around with shriveled up little penises (peni?), hairy, and flabby, and just hanging it all out everywhere. They just don’t care.
The ladies locker room is just as bad. It is full of its own terrifying incidents.
I usually visit at off-peak hours. I like the locker room quiet. I don’t have to get dressed next to other people or share space at the mirror. I don’t have to wait for machines out in the main room and I can sometimes utilize the various studio spaces. Queue up my yoga app and run through a routine in complete silence. The locker room might be the biggest perk though.
The problem with the women’s locker room is mainly that it is unfortunately a potential look into our futures as a female. I cannot get onto the weight machines fast enough. Nothing motivates me like seeing an elder physique sauntering around a locker room after a good steam.
Naked elder folk are not exclusive to the men’s locker room. Old women walk around naked as they day they were born in the ladies room as well. Saggy, spot covered boobies everywhere. They don’t care. You don’t want to look but you cannot help yourself. It’s such a train wreck. The women’s locker room is the most evil crystal ball in the universe. It’s enough to make you either vomit or sprint back to the treadmill.
Naked nastiness aside, some women don’t understand etiquette. More than once now, I’ve been blinded by older female vag. I’m getting dressed, I turn around, and someone has a leg perched up on a bench, flashing their coochie.
I’m sorry, ladies. But no one is licking your hoo-ha after age 45. I’m pretty sure that is the expiration date on that activity. Open your pants like an all you can eat buffet now while you still can. I now understand why women have reconstructive surgery downstairs. I wonder if Obamacare covers this?
Chatty Cathys are another issue. It’s okay to put your bra on before attempting to hold a full blown conversation with me. Really. I’ll wait. I’ll help you clasp the back if you need, as long as I don’t have to keep nervously averting my eyes so I don’t look like a perv while I’m talking to you.
My gym is funded by my employer, so in addition to being open to the community, there are a lot of my fellow employees there as well. There is entirely too much- “Oh you work there too? What department? Do you know so-and-so? How long have you worked there? Do you always come here at this time because I’ve never seen you here before?” with titties flapping as you’re wildly gesturing. How can I concentrate on this interrogation with your headlights blinding me?
In a guy’s mind, a women’s locker room looks like the Playboy Mansion. Even I wish that it did. It’d be less miserable and it wouldn’t smell like pee mixed with various awful perfumes. I’d rather look around and feel worse about my own body because I haven’t attained maximum babe status than feel bad because I am going to be old and forever pruney.
I thank the bearded Jesus every day that my mom still looks good at 51 years old. It’s some consolation that if I at least take care of myself I have a fighting chance and not disintegrating on my 47th birthday.
The women’s locker room is just as much of a shit show as the men’s room. I cannot unsee the things I have seen or unhear the things I have overheard. Have some modesty, ladies. Confidence is fine, but I don’t need your sweaty snatch in my face because you don’t have the decency to get dressed without attempting to contort yourself into odd positions.