Coed Gym Ethics for Men

Men,
When a woman has come to the gym to work out, she has come to work out. She is not there to find a husband, get your phone number, or to be gaped at like an exotic circus animal. Being that you have on your skin tight Affliction shirt and will have no doubt shaved your legs to try and make them look bigger, it is obvious that you are obsessed with looks. Women, however, are obsessed with how they feel about themselves, if they feel beautiful and desirable. She has mustered all her courage to go wrestle her demons at this place called the gym knowing that her every move will be poured over by your slack jawed, deer in the headlights gaze. She knows she will have to work out amongst males who make the free weight area smell like a hamster cage because the women's room was no doubt created by one of your kind since only contains mood lighting and big balls. And as if enduring your foul odor isn't enough, you watch her. You wait for her. You stalk her from machine to machine. You grunt while giving yourself a hernia, straining under the weight of your pride. You pretend to need her bench or even worse, assume we would want to share one with you. You wait in the whirlpool for her swim to be done, hoping she may join you and your swirling back hair. You offer her your personal training services. This is not a petting zoo and if we need a personal trainer, we'll pay for one.

Please note. We watch your eyes. We feel those eyes praying that we will don an elliptical machine for a half hours worth of bouncing away the calories. We see you spying on us during crunches hoping for a glimpse of our girlfriend Victoria. We can see the fantasy play out in your head as you watch us struggle, toil and labor our way to contentment. We also see you walking around as if your Jockey's are a bit too tight and your shirt noticeably too small. We see all your gear from Nike, Adidas, and Under Armor and also notice you're lifting the same weight as us. We notice when you brick on the basketball court and when you can't swim a lap. We notice your drive by of the women's facility, even amongst all those balls in that dim light. So when you see us cock a half smile or bestow a little giggle, we are not attempting to flirt, call your attention, or solicit your advancement. We are merely laughing at you. Let it be your own personal sentinel telling you to run away little man, run away. Humiliation is near.

Doomsday, Ladies, Doomsday

Yes ladies. Today was THAT day. I wore a skirt, cotton undies and showered twice. I know you feel my unease. I spent most of my day dreading being the starring role in the one act play known as "The Lady Hamper" going down at the Kooder Barn Theatre that afternoon. (For the ignorant and the male, that's code for taking a trip to the vagina doctor) Which is ironic being that I am going back to school to be a gyno. I guess there are some things you just never get used to.
The annual gynecologist visit is, in fact, very much like an old western starring the patient as some sort of weird, nude Annie Oakley. You even get a spotlight, just in all the wrong places. You've got the doctor wielding all sorts of weapons and some sort of thing that looks like an old metal gun. Or at least it can sure scare any woman like an old (and cold) metal gun. You even get the costume: the vest with the big skirt. I remember the good old days where you got an actual hospital gown and a freshly laundered sheet. Now they've gone all cheap and all you get is that ever awkward waxed paper vest and tarp that's made out of the same crap as that bib the dentist puts on you. That thing never stays in place and has armholes big enough to flash your milk wagons to everyone in the restaurant across the street. And no matter how little you move, it sounds like that plastic mattress pad you used to roll around on when you were a toilet training toddler. Come to think of it, dentist tools and gyno tools kinda look the same....yikes.
Anyway, just like any western movie, it has its usual western plot line. Annie came to town to make sure it was still safe. She was grappled and wounded by Gyno the Kid and her sidekick Chastity (except today I think her name was Vicki). And despite her wounded pride and slightly bruised dignity, our heroine held her head high and managed to remain victorious with her daring feats and acts of bravery.... by getting a pap smear so her insurance company would reward her with a check for taking preventative measures against her uterus falling apart. The End!