Sweaty girl.

Girl that sweats.

You walk by my office every day after lunch.

Taunting me with your elevated heart rate, and glistening skin, with your Rydel High pony tail.
Judging my lunch of leftovers and cold coffee through the office windows that expose my vulnerability to the mall walkers.

I am scared

That if you glance my way you will judge me. But I know if there’s a glance it’s only to check out your small strong profile in the reflection of the windows I cleaned earlier this morning. Maybe you walk this way just to abuse my window-washing talent – to mock me... to make me a slave to you.

A slave to your vanity.

You are like the Egyptian Goddess who enslaved millions only to build statues of herself to gaze upon her beauty.

While you wear those tiny tight spandex pants with your matching headband and pink sweat towel I sit at my desk watching the clock tick..tock..tick..tock no exercise for me except for frequent trips to the washroom, and the gentle turns of my office chair which I do hope give some excitement to my abs (secretly shrinking my love handles with the little effort of maintaining balance).

I’m sent back in time: sitting on my couch at home, tying up my running shoes. Getting ready for a thirty minute session with Tony Little, or Richard Simmons (depending on the emotional undertones of weather) in my elastic waist shorts and t-shirt.

Leg warmers optional.

Cruel cruel lady. Sweaty Lady. Gym-Membership lady. How I loathe you.

You have all this time to work out in the gym... save three minutes at the end of your workout to shower and put on your normal clothes – don’t taunt me anymore – with your buns of steel. Don’t make me feel bad about myself simply because you feel cool parading around in your sweat drenched clothing to prove you work out.

It’s gross!

I bet your sweat even smells good…

Written by Melissa