In which Strange Things Happen at the Gym

I went to the gym today for the first time since my surgery. The exercising went well - I can do the recumbent bike (even with the broken foot) and some core exercises on the ball. The thing is though, that getting dressed is an exercise in itself. Putting on a sports bra with two broken wrists is quite an arduous proposition - but it's nothing compared to trying to take it off.

I was happy, but sweaty and trying to get out of my clothes and into the shower. Shoes - a few tugs and twists and they were off - no problem. Socks, shorts, not a big deal at all. The shirt was a little tricky, so I decided to take off the arm braces before attempting the bra. I managed to get it up over my breasts and almost get an elbow through when I got stuck. Yup - there I was in the middle of the locker room being held prisoner by my own bra. Luckily I was close to one of the small curtained alcoves and I ducked in before anyone saw me flapping around like that. OK - so I was now not being watched, but I was still stuck. I considered begging the help of strangers. I imagined their shock as I flapped toward them, a weird sweaty woman with vivid wrist scars that resemble a suicide attempt begging help to get out of her bra. Not the best option. I struggled a bit more, cursed a bit, attempted to rip the damn thing by pulling out with my elbow, and finally got my arm through. I emerged triumphant from the curtain, donned my towel and had to sit and rest for a moment.

At this point, I was more than ready for a relaxing shower and a soak in the hot tub. I wandered over to the upper part of the locker room where they have the showers, steam room, dry sauna, and whirlpools. There is a large open area outside the showers consisting of a "Roman bath" of sorts - large comfy chairs in a "courtyard" surrounded by the whirlpools and saunas. It is not unusual to find a woman resting in a towel on one of the chairs and wearing some sort of mineral mask, but what I saw as I entered was another story.

There were two women seated in the chairs next to the wall and speaking very loudly to each other in Russian. One of them had a thick green goo covering her face, the other - a white foam that looked suspiciously like shaving cream. The one with the shaving cream face was sitting sideways on a chair with her right foot propped in the chair beside her. Since the towels at our gym are no more than glorified wash-cloths she was inviting all who walked in to see her up- close and personal parts. And then she took out the straight razor. I almost stopped dead in fear of what the hell she was going to do to herself. She calmly, luxuriously placed the blade against the skin at her ankle and began to shave her leg. I walked to the shower as quickly as possible and contemplated the absurdity of it all.

I left the shower, ignored the Russian show, and got in the whirlpool. The thing I like best about working out at our gym is the whirlpool when you're done - it's magnificent. It never feels that good if you go in for just the whirlpool (yes, I admit, I have done that) you really have to have honestly worked out hard to get that bone-melting relaxation at the end. I stayed in the pool long enough to do my wrist exercises and climbed out. The Russians were at it again. They had washed the goop off of their faces, and I presume finished shaving without incident. One of them was lying back on a lounge chair while the other leaned over her and began to squeeze the pores on her forehead. People coming in were giving them looks varying from incredulous to disgusted, but they didn't seem to notice. I was tempted to tell the on-lookers that they had missed the good stuff at the early matinee, but I thought better of it and padded back to my locker instead.