Misadventure at the Gym

So, you remember that time I talked about my propensity for sweating when I work out? And how unfair it is that these little princesses trot along on the treadmill next to me looking all dewy and fresh, while I'm all OMG COULD YOU PLEASE TURN DOWN THE HEAT I THINK I'M GOING TO DEHYDRATE OVER HERE!?!?! Yeah. That. Turns out I've found (yet) another way this gene lottery dud isn't serving me well in public spaces.

See, I'm making good on a promise I made to my pants to make them work a little less hard around the waist this winter. (You see how I DIDN'T call that a New Year's Resolution? Makes it much less difficult to disappoint myself. Semantics, for the win!) As a result of said promise, I've been lugging my tired rear to the gym to log miles on the treadmill and in spin class. Last night was no different as I situated myself of a treadmill for a little half hour run. About 15 minutes into it, a gal claimed the machine next to me, wearing a thick hoodie sweatshirt, yoga pants and a baseball cap. I note her attire for two reasons. First, how can people wear pants and long sleeves when they work out? I realize it's about -20 degrees outside, but my gym sufficiently makes up for the freezing outdoor temps by cranking the heat, putting the cardio room on the second floor and never EVER taking into consideration the copious amount of body heat that is produced when 50 people are engaging in aerobic activity simultaneously. Second, though Girlfriend didn't look all that sweaty, I could only actually see her face and hands, so it was a little difficult to tell.

I, on the other hand, was quite visibly drowning in the puddle of sweat in my moisture-wicking (*snort*) shorts and shirt as she pranced along next to me. And then I noticed it. There was a smell coming from her that was a mixture of sour feet and mold. And it wasn't the kind of odor that lightly taps you on the shoulder then drifts away. No, sir. This was punch-you-in-face-and-laugh-while-you-squirm kind of stink. How does this have to do with my sweat, you wonder? Because Hard Core Runner Dude on my other side (only vaguely perspiring through his sprints. WTH, Mother Nature?) kept giving ME dirty looks through the rest of my run, as though I was the source of the offense. To be fair, I can't blame him. I'm a hot mess by mile 1.5, while Stanky McToejam over there was a veritable Summer's Eve commercial, looking all "tra-la-la I'm as fresh as the morning breeze" while I'm actually gagging through my final mile.

I can only assume the playground rules of "(s)he who smelt it, dealt it" apply at the gym, so I think I deserve the calorie burn for an extra mile for not ratting her out to Hard Core Runner Dude. Consider it a deposit in the karma bank, Ms. McToejam.