It's come to my attention recently, that I'm suffering from a bit of the Holday Jiggly. You know the feeling, the circulation to your legs gets cut off by suddenly tiny waistbands, puffy pink flesh bows out from every unclothed gap, and general squooshiness replaces all of those beloved bones: cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones, etc.
My main H'mo du jour was also feeling the jiggly...made all the more anxious for the fact that, as Masetto in Don Giovanni, he'll need to strip down to undies and a bra and get rammed from behind by Leporello. "Do my tits jiggle when he thrusts?" he asked. What could I say.
We considered our options, and then decided we needed fitness...in the form of a really upscale club. We decided to do a trial training at Holmes Place, an incredibly chi-chi club tucked away into the same shopping complex as Givenchy, Louis Vuitton, Dior, etc. Apparently they offer discounts to people from the opera.
If there's one thing I've learned from every gym I've ever joined (except for the NYSC on Court and Remsen in Brooklyn Heights), it's that fitness, or at least what heterosexual women know as fitness is only the tip of the iceberg. Gay visual politicking overtakes any other function of any given training center, after a point.
We packed our bags and went to Holmes Place. It was slick, bright, and full of beautiful men strutting in pre-ordained patterns, sending each other cryptic glances. A very tall, very orange man named Stefan (whose tattoos climbed out from under his three-piece suit and up his neck) walked us through. The place seemed totally pleasant, even nice...if not totally overpriced.
I zoned out, staring at the womens' only area, doors to the steam and heat rooms...thinking about the entire box of cookies I'd eaten earlier that afternoon, in celebration of my finally getting my shit together to work out a bit. We strolled. Stefan talked. My man listened.
After what seemed like an abnormally short while, their conversation seemed to be wrapping up, in a "thanks, we'll think about it and let you know" kind of way. What? I had come to confront the Holiday Jiggly, not to wander around with a creature that looked more like living, breathing beef jerky than an ordinary human for twenty minutes.
"Could we do a trial training?" I saw my partner in crime go white. "Sometime?" I added.
We received "redeem for a trial workout" cards and headed toward the door. I was confused, annoyed at having carted my gym shit across Berlin, and curious as to why my man was shaking.
"Didn't you hear", he asked, obviously relieved to be out of there. "I have a muscle shirt".
"Oh." I said. We kept walking for a while.
"That orange guy said that muscle shirts are an absolute no go".
We did the only thing we could think to do, considering the situation. We walked (briskly, give me some credit) to the nearest Xmas market and drank 3 mugs of mulled wine in rapid succession.
Then we went back to his place, ate Pringles and Lasagna, and watched Hustler White.
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