This morning's "incedent" happened to take place at the very same local as many of my other memorable moments of Southern California. Why yes, you guessed it; the ill fate that befell me today happened yet again at 24hour fitness. Thankfully today's tale has nothing to do with making a 'duce', but it maintains it's own level of hillarity (or at least its resounding interest struck me as such)
This morning's trip to 24hr began like many of the others before it except for 3 ironic scenarios:
1) While working out late last week I remembered how much I prefer to lift in a tight-fitting running top. It really has nothing to do with thinking I look tougher in something tight (though, let's get honest with ourselves...I do look way tougher lifting in that tight running top) I just prefer to not look like all of the dudes going sleeveless so they can show off their 'pipes' to all the 'whores'. So to wrap up: tight-fitting running top.
2) While working out around 9pm on Sunday evening I noticed that I was sweating terribly as I lifted (due to poor air circulation...thank you Magic Johnson for your contributions to 24hr Fitness) so when I prepared to go to 24hr this morning I remembered to pack my navy blue bandana to prevent the sweat from imparing my vision of the weight room and poor plastic surgery
3) Let's just get honest with each other here: up untill this afternoon, I've been unemployed which had created a lack of zeal for any sort of facial hair removal or shaving on my part. Granted, this little unkempt appearance might have been the very condition keeping me from employement, but none the less, as I left for 24hr this morning, I was about 3-4 days unshaven.
So in review: Tight fitting long sleave running top, Blue bandana worn low on my forehead/over my ears, 3-4 day amount of facial hair all leading up to a grand total of: LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL GANGSTA.
I honestly hadn't made the connection between myself and a skinnier Tupac Sukar until I was doing a set of reverse flies on the "freestyle" machine when a large ex-Raiders lineman approached me and asked, "how many more sets you got...Hommie?"
Now, I would like to make it clear that he didn't just say, "How many more sets you got hommie?" He walked up to me, set his bag down, puffed his chest slightly as a unsaid way of letting me know that he could really say anything he wanted, and said "how many more sets you got" looked me up and down, leaned in and finished with, "Hommie"
Was I scared, Yes. Did I think he was going to hit me, Yes. Did I thug out and tell him I'll be finished when I'm finished...No. I simply said, I just got one more (which was a lie, I had wanted to do another 3 sets, but he was an ex-Raider), finished up my last set, wiped the machine down for the man only to have him loose interest and walk off.
The moral of the story is unknown. It should be something about trying to be something you're not, but that wasn't a bad thing in this case. A large black man called me "Hommie". That was probably the coolest thing to happen to me since I've been out here. At least it tops those dolphins we saw at the beach. Dolphins...please.
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