He did it again. Community Center. I wasn’t anxious to workout. Weather turning a tad bit nicer, nonetheless I trudged down the stairs. See this sign.. .”Pump Up Area.” Huh? Well of course, there’s a weight room. No, no, no… this sign pointed another direction. The opposite way.
So.. went ahead and snuck into my shorts and t-shirt, to the cardio-vascular area for my 30 minute ‘love’ affair with Ms. Elliptical. It was me… a 60-something old lady.. 40 empty machines… 30 full mirrors.. and 20 gorgeous bikinki clad women. HUH? Yes, it was somekinda body-building contest.. and the Pump Up Area just so happened to be adjacent to the exercise room.
The lass’s took turns looking at themselves in various poses – at the two doors just to my left. (Or, ahm, directly across the mirror just to my right. Damn my neck hurts.).. Another old fart my age enters, and he wasn’t so shy – he walked right up to the stair-stepper that was literally eight feet from the 20 bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women. Bastard.
Perhaps he got embarrassed, or “cardio-vascularly challenged”, cause he didn’t stay long. He had a grin on his face wider than Mayberry RFD.
Amongst this group of twenty-something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit women were two dudes. The occupation they had was a bit strange… First, they sprayed some kinda something all up and down the bodies of the lasses… and then they again went all up and down their bodies brushing on some kinda powder. Bastards.
“I lost my job at the factory…”… “Sprint”… “The car dealership”.. “I’m unemployed… whadda you do for a living?”.. I brush babes. Uh huh, I do. I brush babes. Bastards.
For a long time I didn’t observe any “pump”, and these gals definitely weren’t the behemoth, grossly muscled women you think… they were all size 0 to 6… firm… Finally, one of ‘em took this rubber surgical tubing, placed it under her feet and began to lift up with both arms. I saw a baby bicep, but somehow I don’t necessarily think muscles were what all were there to see.
I reckon, point is. Pump Up Area. What’s your Pump Up Area? We’re all beach balls in life – and wear and tear gets us partially deflated. We need Pump Up Areas.
Mine? Thought you’d never ask, thanks. Coffee in the kitchen. The smoke area before work and during breaks. My cubicle. The Sauna. The car with the radio’a cranked. Water. Airplanes, either on ‘em or lookin’ at ‘em from the ground. Loved ones. Children. Little babies. A fun email received that a friend thought enough to type the letters of my name to include. Animals. Fun.
The Corner Bar. Just shoot me, I don’t care at this point. Friendly there. Randy, for instance. Haven’t known him a great length of time – but this man adorns a smile 24/7. Bastard, said lovingly. He’s always pumped.. I guess his Pump Up Area is simply having his eyes open.
The weight room. My pecs, biceps, all that junk are still very much in the miniature stage. Five months at it now… maybe here and there a peek into the mirror to stop and think, “hey, it’s kinda getting there.” Enough anyways, to Pump me up about return to the Pump Up Area.
Some, like Randy, perhaps don’t need that Pump Up Area impetus. They roll happy. Some, perhaps like Victurd (and the twenty something bikini clad, gorgeous, sparkly, tanned, fit, women) need their Pump Up Areas.
Some, unfortunately, leak – and won’t hold the air it takes to enjoy life. Sad.
Hey, thanks for taking the time to place your eyeballs here. That does pump me up. I gotta go now. Gonna Google “Brush Babes” to see where I can perhaps intern to ultimately do that for a living. What better than to work in the Pump Up Area eh? Love, Victurd.
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