That ain’t right

Big Mike rumbling in my ear, "So I’m outside of the club and you think I’m a punk…I ain’t never scared, I ain’t never scared!!" He pushed, pulled and drug me through the last five minutes of my time on the rack, you probably call it a treadmill, and I replayed the track a couple of times while I went through my cool down and stretching routine. It took my mind off the quantum questions most often reserved for philosophers. Things like, "Why in the hell would you decide to run 7 seven miles," "Do I want to die," and "I wonder how a much a psychotherapist is going for these days?" Don’t laugh. I bet volumes have been written in attempts to answer these questions. And I bet the authors are people that join gyms. "I ain’t never scared! I ain’t never scared!" After some awkward moments I managed to unfold myself from the Satan position, you probably call it the hurdler stretch, climb to my feet and gaze out of the window. "I ain’t never scared. I ain’t never scared!" I twist the top off my water jug and drink enough that people start to stare.
I wandered towards the locker room. "I ain’t never scared. I ain’t never scared!" Ever have one of those moments when you look at something, but you don’t see it until it’s too late. Drowning,drowning, drowning in that moment and didn’t know it.
I passed an elderly man who, after leaving the men’s locker room, bore a look of concern. Then I passed two men who seemed to be enjoying mutual disgust. I looked at them , but I didn’t see them. "I ain’t never scared. I ain’t never scared!" I enter the locker room trying to remember if I put my things in locker 4 or 6, and then I am no longer just looking at the faces of those people–I see them. And I am scared. Big Mike can’t help me.
There he is. There is a middle-aged man bent over, with his ass facing the center of the locker room, grabbing his ankles stretching. While wearing a thong. A THONG!!! This falls squarely under the heading "Are you fucking serious?!" Abruptly turning to my locker, I feel like I have just walked in on my parents sneaking a quickie. Grown ass men are not supposed to wear thongs! No, no, no, no!! This is not what Dru Hill had in mind when he said he wanted to see your thong!!
I grabbed my stuff out of my locker, which was in locker 6–in case it matters–ducked around the corner, scrambled to pull on my sweats and dashed out of there. I hope that whoever passed me on their way to the locker room saw me and didn’t just look at me. Damn. Grown ass men shoud not wear thongs.
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