Southern Exposure

Markus and I workout about 3-4 times a week. I have to go before 2pm because after 2pm, the beautiful people show up with the butt floss and fantastic bods. It gets really crowded and becomes something of a meat market. I work out in an old tee shirt and baggy sweats that are even baggier since I've lost weight. I am the antithesis to the 3pm and after group. Well, last week we skipped the morning workout. By 6 pm, Markus was jonesing for a little muscular torture. I figured it was so late, everyone would pretty much be gone, so I agreed to go.

Lord Almighty, it was busy. Butt floss and heavily made-up faces everywhere. Men in silver and gold chains on top of the shirt with the arms cut off. Women with more jewllery and make-up caked faces.

I've never understood the make-up thing at the gym. Aren't you supposed to be sweaty and yukky? Isn't that the point? German make-up is not as thick as Texas, but just as wretched. Not so much foundation because tanning booths abound and everyone has that baked brown crispyness.

Anyway,I had to wait for circuit training machines. I was waiting for the lat pull down when I spied the same machine in the free weights section. And better yet, Markus was using it. So I picked up my water bottle, towel and headphones and walked purposefully towards the other side of the room.

As I passed the calf raiser, my pant leg caught on the mid-thigh level rubber non-slip handle. Immediately my pants are pulled to my knees. They don't rip, they fall. As do I. And with the momentum of my purposeful stride, I can't stop until its too late. I grabbed at my sweats and at nearby machines trying to pull myself and my pants up, but was no use. The more I struggled, the lower my pants fell. Two nice gentlemen tried to help me, but I was so mortified. It was that manic "I'm-okay-Thanks" look that kept them at a distance.

Finally, after giving in to gravity, I fell down completely, thighs and stomach and panties exposed in the middle of the circuit circle. Several seconds of tugging and I removed the snag on the machine. I pulled myself up as gracefully as I could, smiled and walked carefully away.

Now, I had only two options. I could retreat to the locker room, dress and go home. Or I could smile and continue my workout, pretending that my self pants-ing was a minor inconvenience and no one really noticed.

Stupidly, I decide on the latter. Markus was still on the machine I originally wanted. He was the only person in the gym who hadn't seen the debacle. I looked over to the area of my misfortune, still smiling the Grace-Kelly-you-can't-touch-me smile. People were staring and pointing and talking. I continued to wear the smile which had become more loon than princess. There was nothing else I could do.

This is my most embarrassing moment throughout a lifetime of memorable embarrassing moments. This out did the panties on California street, out did the locksmith incident, out embarrassed every other moment. The Japanese tourists incident was even funny at the time. This was not funny. I mean, yes, its funny, but it took me several days to find an ounce of humor in it.

At some point I begin to wonder if maybe the universe wants me to be an exhibitionist. I keep fighting it, but the universe continues to expose my bottom.

Hot shit

Heisse Scheisse translates to hot shit. One would think that with a rhyming like that, more people would say it. But no.

The first time I used the phrase, my German husband, bilingual except on those occasions when it is convenient to misunderstand, looked at me as if I suggested it as a meal.

"Yes honey, hot shit for dinner tonight. Its part of that South Beach diet."

He suggested that I not say it to strangers as they wouldn't understand. However, since I'm an American LEARNING German I have an out. People just look at me and smile as I butcher their language. Except for the time I said "evil pussy" to my mother-in-law, most people give me the benefit of the doubt. (Evil pussy was a total mistake, BTW. It rhymes too. Böse Möse. How can you not put those words together?)

And Germans have kind of an obsession with poop. The toilets beg you to look at the poop, the heisse scheisse. They have shelves and take lo-flo to the extreme. Your poop lands on the shelf. When you push the button to flush, the water lifts it off the shelf. The button is on the top of the tank or on the wall above. Even the most pious have to look. It stares you down, it dares you to look. It double dog dares you to examine it a little closer.

After a while, I became poop-obsessed. I started to wonder why some days were more "productive" than others. I added fiber to my diet, I ate apple sauce. I even started to consider a high colonic.

Sparky's mother instructed me to place 1 sheet of toilet paper on the shelf when I need to relieve myself. If you forget or if your "product" doesn't fit on the small square, every toilet in Germany has a toilet brush right next to it for quick cleaning. Another fascination of the Deutsch, cleanliness of environment. I've had poop and cleaning raised to new levels of awareness since moving here.

When designing our bathroom, we ordered Italian toilets. The model name 'Sweet Life'. It's the antithesis of a German toilet. Rather than a shelf, it has a deep dark hole. Once something enters, it is never seen again. Its nice, but sometimes I miss the shelf.