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P.I.M.P* at the Gym

April 19, 2012

It’s time for the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop! It was after attending in 2010 that I was inspired to start this blog and this was the inaugural post. I’m really looking forward to going back and getting renewed inspiration to last me another 2 years. Hopefully, Angela will be attending because if not, I’ll have to find someone else to write about. But I do promise to change the names of the innocent. I’ve also downloaded the WordPress iPhone app and if I figure out how to actually use it, you may see some updates from the workshop. That is unless they incriminate me in any way, and then well, you’re just shit out of luck and will have to rely on your imagination. No wait, don’t do that…. what I meant to say is if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m busy typing away at new material.  Yeah, that’s it. Stay tuned…. 😉 

She walked up to me and said, “Are you staying here?”  I panicked, unsure of how to answer.  We were in the Marriott hotel lobby on a break from the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.  I had sat next to Angela earlier in the day for lunch, but other than that, I did not know her from Adam.  And she had just asked me for the key to my hotel room.

Luckily, for Angela, I was a little “lubed” thanks to the free flowing wine during dinner.  I said “yes” and handed her my key.  It seemed she just wanted into the hotel gym.  She was about to perform in the stand-up comedy night at the workshop in front of all the attendees and any other stragglers who stopped by.  Somehow right before her set, she realized she had back fat.  Angela told me she could quickly remedy this problem with a few minutes in the gym.  I was skeptical, telling her I didn’t think it was possible to melt off back fat in 5 minutes, but she refuted my claim.

So, I joined her in her quest to melt back fat, as a spectator, of course.  After about 30 seconds in the gym, I realized why I don’t workout – gyms stink. But, I continued to humor Angela in her quest to melt her non-existent back fat.  And then I used my cell phone camera to capture the moment for posterity.

Somewhere between the shoulder fly’s and the big bouncy ball (not sure the ball is helpful in the battle against back fat, but who can resist the bouncy fun?), I realized major bladder leakage was imminent.  It was also at that instant I decided to stay instead of running to the bathroom, which undoubtedly had a line three quarters of a mile long, and continued to snap pictures.  Either way, I was going to pee my pants and speed exercising seemed funnier than standing in line with forty other women who had to pee.

“This is going to make a great story,” I tell Angela, as I crossed my legs and tried to think who exactly the patron Saint of Urinary Continence was.  I drew a blank, but figured I would go with Saint Jude, Patron of Lost Causes.  In my head I started to pray, “Hey Jude…” only to realize after a couple of lines, that I’m praying to Paul McCartney to please not let me pee my pants in the Marriott gym.

Sir Paul did not answer my prayers, and I must have pissed off Saint Jude. I rationalized it away by convincing myself this was my way of suffering for my art.  At least it gave me a warm feeling inside (my pants).

*Peeing In My Pants

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