Training Week One Part 2 or Why I Smelled So Bad at the Grocery Store

If you encountered me at Dominick's this morning, sorry.  I probably smelled pretty bad. There are several reasons for this. I'll tell you three.

The first reason is because someone did not do the laundry and so I had no clean running socks. And because I had no clean running socks I had to wear dirty ones. (If you don't know what running socks are imagine buying regular socks but paying three times as much for them). 

The second reason is because I am allergic to most deodorants. They make me itch and my arm pit breaks out in little red bumps. (If you donate $25  I will send you a picture. If you donate $50 I won't.).  It turns out that it is really hard to run and scratch your armpits at the same time, so I didn't put any on this morning.

The third, and main, reason I reeked at the store this morning is because I didn't shower after I was done working out. Why? Simple, I hate locker room showers.  I don't like being naked in front of complete strangers. I don't like complete strangers being named in front of me.

I don't like being naked in front of anybody. When I was younger I would get dressed while awkwardly leaning against my bedroom door so my parents wouldn't come in while I was naked. At Carleton I avoided rotblatt because of the potential of nude innings. Nor was I one of those Carls who participated in the nude Winter Olympics. I lock my bathroom door when no one else is in the house just in case some random person should decide to wander in off the street and barge in on me.

I wouldn't mind public locker rooms if they were designed with any chance for privacy, but the goal of men's locker rooms seems to be to allow as many people as possible to see you naked at once. For those of you who have been fortunate enough not to have been in the men's locker room, let me paint you a picture.

Imagine a cluster of shower heads put in the middle of a wide open field with benches conveniently placed all around for random stranger's viewing pleasure.  The benches are currently occupied by piles of abandoned clothes, wet towels, and the naked members of the AARP bowling league.

There is no where to hang your towel near the shower. You either have to leave it behind and parade past everyone naked or use it as a wrap and give up all hope of drying off with it.  Because it's winter in Chicago you decide drying off is essential to your health. Sighing, you leave your towel on the bench. You turn on the shower and hurriedly soap yourself up. Just about the time you are lathered halfway up your body, Sasquatch's hairier cousin chooses to use the shower head directly opposite yours. He's way too close for comfort, so you step back -- right into a floating island of hair.  None of it is yours.  You jump away from it and bump into a Jabba the Hutt look-a-like. He starts yelling at you. Everyone turns to see what all the commotion is about. Everyone is now staring at your naked, half-washed body.

Yeah, no thank you. I'd rather shower in the privacy of my own bathroom at home where no one can see me naked. Even if that means shopping while being slightly less odoriferous than a garbage truck full of skunks.

(Some of you will probably rush to point out that I spent a few summers frolicking around nude in the Payette River with a bunch of guys. That is true. I did, but they weren't strangers; they were people I knew and trusted. Except for those two guys I had never met before . . . and the few hundred people in the passenger train that went by. . . Okay, so I've been naked in front of random strangers before, but the shower thing is different. It's different when you are wet. I don't like being naked and wet in front of people. What? a river is wet? . . . The Payette is filled with very dry water . . . oh, shut up and give some money to World Vision.)