Do you ever wish you had a “man” mirror?  You know the mirrors I’m talking about, the ones that men look into and instantly see a rock solid chick magnet.  It doesn’t matter what shape or weight they are, they give themselves a thumbs up— a wink and out the door they go to take on the world.  Women on the other hand, look in the “female” mirror, and see flaws whether they exist or not.  Through the years, society has trained us well. 

 It is because of my “female” mirror that I hit the gym in the mornings.  This morning, I crawled out of bed reluctantly—put on my workout clothes—tied my hair back—grabbed my music and out the door I went.  I thought about taking the stairs down to the gym floor, but that didn’t seem sane.  So I headed for the elevators—hit the button and waited.  Before long, an elevator door opened, as I walked in, I was greeted by a man also headed to the gym.  He was dressed in 1970′s short shorts, a tank and sneakers.  We made small talk as the elevator dropped to the gym.  He mentioned that he was a regular gym rat and that he was training for an ironman.  Impressive!

As we walked into the gym, I encouraged him to have a great workout and headed to the treadmills.  Today was my treadmill day—I started up the interval program—hit my favorite music—and commenced with my jog.  In my mind, I was running through the woods—beside the lake—through a meadow—about the time I was completely in my happy place— I noticed the man in the elevator, Mr. Ironman, had left the weight area and was now on the treadmill next to me.  It was his treadmill day too apparently.  As my peripheral vision caught him beginning his run, I returned to my own run.  The running euphoria had set in—my mind was clear—I was back in my happy place—all was great.

 Minutes passed—we were running on the treadmills like bored hamsters.  Mr. Ironman running with his chest out—looking as manly as possible.  Suddenly—my nose picked up a smell—a very unpleasant smell at that.  As I made a face trying to figure out what the smell was—I looked in the direction of Mr. Ironman.  There he stood, one leg on each side of the treadmill—looking down—brown liquid all over the treadmill base.  As I looked up, it was also covering his sneakers, legs and shorts.  His bladder had unleashed on the poor treadmill.  The smell filling up the gym.  The treadmill loaded to it’s capacity and dripping onto the floor.

It was early in the morning, few people at the gym, those of us that were there were standing in stunned silence.  Mr. Ironman stepped off of the treadmill—looked at me—puffed out his chest and strutted out of the gym—a squishy sound with every step, leaving a brown trail. 

 As he exited the gym, he walked up to a janitor and informed there was a mess to clean up on the treadmill.  Where most women would have died of embarrassment, he walked out just as confident as he walked in.  Mr. Ironman — he might have been made of iron—but his bladder wasn’t.

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