Gym-Going Tyrants

The truth is, I admire those who can so freely walk around a gym’s dressing room in a naked manner. These women have no inhibitions about being gawked at as they undress, make their way to and from the shower, and then redress. They simply amaze me. They’re free, and the rest of us just wish we were.

But. Even freedom has its limits.
Like when I’m running from my car to the gym because I have to pee so badly that I may or may not have already started wetting my pants. I rush through the doors, knocking a man into the glass partition and mutter some sort of “I’m so sorry, I’m just in a hurry and if you look close enough you’ll see why”.
There’s a line at the check-in counter. The ID machines seem to be slow today. Apparently computing phone numbers and finger prints has been wearing on them lately. The line shortens and it’s my turn. I punch some numbers, hobble back and forth on my feet, and wait. Scanning finger . . . Scanning finger . . . Would you hurry up! It’s the same finger I use every day! . . . Scanning finger . . .
I finally get the computer’s permission to Enjoy workout! and off I go, skipping madly to the women’s dressing rooms though I shouldn’t bother really, since my pants are pretty much soaked in my reason for entering the restroom in the first place.
I turn the corner. Wham! A face is in my face; her shoulder against mine. She didn’t hear me coming; my apparent blindness missed her as well. She’s freshly showered; I’m caught by major surprise.
I no longer need to use the restroom. I turn to head home, where I will wash off the urine and nakedness and sulk in annoyance at having missed a day at the gym.
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