Rocky Balboa

I just came back from the gym where three elderly people (two women in their late sixties and one of their husbands) had taken up residence on one of the benches and the shoulder press machine. The two women were in their bathing suits and the gentleman was in shorts and a Polo shirt. All three were barefoot, which has started to gross me when I see it in the gym. Even though I know it's probably no less hygienic than a hundred other things in my life, I get a little Howard Hughes when I watch people's bare feet touch machines or treadmills that I will be using later. The two women carried on a conversation about their fractious relationship with one of their daughters who has just re-entered the work force. The man would join in at various points and then half-heartedly use the machine in a jerky enough manner as to almost guarantee injury. The three took a break to eat from their covered plate they had brought up from the Chocaholic's Buffet. The gym was relatively empty, so maybe that made them feel entitled to eat cream puffs and mousse right in the middle of a workout facility. The man then moved over to the Lat Pull-down machine, which I am convinced he broke, and the women began to henpeck him from their bench (“Less wait, David! David! Put it on “Two,” David! David! You only want just enough to get a workout on your upper body!”) I got significantly less tense when they left.

I then stopped by The Relaxation Room to use their hot tub. There is a small lap pool there, and the rocky conditions of the sea had turned it into a wave pool, with waves sometimes hitting the ceiling. One of the Host Staff was there to ward people off, and she told me there were plans to drain the pool. In retrospect, I wish I had asked her if I could just get in for a few minutes, but maybe there would have been some karmic injury incurred for all of the unkind thoughts I had had about the three oldies in the gym. Yes, I called them "Oldies."