Day Eight- she ate a raspberry souffle

Well, not really- I was just daydreaming of raspberries and Prince at the same time.

The gym last night was funny. I go to a gym which is free for everyone who works in my building to use. I am sick of paying for gyms I rarely use and this is now kind of making up for it. However, this gym has got to be the filthiest mofo gym I have ever seen. I now laugh at how anal retentive I used to be at clean gyms, throwing looks of disdain and disgust at anyone who would miss a sweat drop or two when cleaning off the machines they had just used. Those were the days. I won't even touch my face until I get home and can wash my hands properly. (Because if you think I am going in those showers, you have got another thing coming missy).

At this gym getting on to a weight machine is like getting on the water rides at Alton Towers- you know the log flume? Using your hands as wipers so that your arse doesn't get too wet when you sit down? And the smell. There isn't any hyperbole I could use to describe it. Honestly. And most hilariously, it's a meat market- worse than any Yate's on a Friday night. Now, slaving away in the filth and sweat of 100 other people while trying to avoid the looking at the sweaty crotch of the man in venty shorts on the running machine in front of me, while avoiding eye contact with the 20 year old 'men' pumping iron (because if you do establish accidental eye contact, say while you are looking at the clock, that's it- they think you're hooked on the hotness and they'll strut in front of you like roosters), is not a situation that's going to make me want to bump uglies with anyone. All I think about while I am in there is getting out without contracting some rare skin disease brought over by one of these kids in their gap year. But no one said reclaiming the hotness was going to be easy.