I nearly lost consciousness at the gym once. It was actually in the faux-teak and terra-cotta-tiled "ladies' lounge" of an upscale health club a few blocks from my apartment. I'd decided to shave a few minutes off my morning routine by prepping for work at the gym instead of sprinting home right after Spin class. Big mistake. As I scampered from the shower to my locker, clutching a threadbare gym-issued towel barely wide enough to cover me, I caught sight of a doughy naked woman, her nipples the size of salami slices, holding aloft a compact as she carefully plucked her eyebrows. I was so distracted by her brazen nudity — by the boobs, folds, moles, and thatch — that I walked right into an open locker door, prompting the kind of woozy spell that, had I been a cartoon character, would have been accompanied by chirping birds.
I am baffled, even horrified, by women who treat the locker room like their own sandalwood-scented boudoir. I've seen gals, still flushed from a workout, slather lotion on their haunches like they were being filmed for the Spice Channel.
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