Weight To Go

Every time I’ve been at the gym lately, I’ve had this overwhelming urge to steal the free weights.
I don’t know what the deal is with the urge to steal these things. I mean, I haven’t stolen anything ever since some lawyer wrote this letter to me, telling me to clean up my act. Well, OK, so I take straws from the café every day when I leave the gym, and there was that time when a copy of Fitness magazine may have found its way home with me, too, but that’s about it.
So, anyway. The gym. The weights. The stealing of the steel. Or the iron. Or whatever those things are made of. The ones I want are cast iron, I think. Not the cushy vinyl ones. Not the colorful ones. Not that they’re not pretty ‘n’ all, but … Please.
It probably would be easy to do, since the ones I have my eyes on (but not my hands) are kept in big bins in a large studio on the third floor, which is generally unoccupied when I’m there early in the morning. In order to avoid the not too subtle leers of the cardio creepers who I’m sure use the third floor elliptical trainers in order to get the best “view” of the activity going on in the weights area on that floor, I have taken to using this studio on that floor to do any exercise that would afford them a coveted rear view. And it is in that studio that the free weights reside, just waiting to be … stolen.
They just look so unloved. All crammed in those containers, pecking at each other with their beakless maws. When I come in, there’s such a clamor for my attention that the din drowns out the furious beating of my panicked heart.
I’ve “cased the joint”, and haven’t seen any sort of surveillance camera in there (the ones in the open areas are not too cleverly disguised as white, bulbous lighting fixtures). I haven’t checked to see if the mirror glass is two-way (yes, there is a way to make that determination), because that would be a bit of a self-admission that I’m really considering committing this horrible crime.
You see, I’m not really going to take anything. I was caught shoplifting a few times when I was “underage” (maybe one day we’ll all sit around a BLOGfire and I’ll tell you about it), and one of the times, when I was dragged (yes, by my upper arm) by the security guard to the little office upstairs at Clover, I was warned that it was a good thing I wasn’t several years older. Well, I’m a few years older now. (Just a few.)
Still, the weights cry out to me every morning. And every morning I picture myself slipping one inside my gym bag and casually descending the two flights of stairs to the ground floor, where I stroll even more casually toward the turnstile out into the café — where I blithely take a straw or two (so as not to arouse suspicion) (it’s just another day, after all), and then … just as I’m about to push through the door into the small vestibule, where only one more door waits to be pushed through before I reach outside …
… someone claps his strong arm on my shoulder and demands that I open my bag. And then I say, as shocked as can be, “Oh, I put it in my bag so I could take it downstairs to do triceps, and then I decided to just skip it. I totally forgot it was in there!”
And then I wind up in what my sister and I call “dyke jail”, where no one is pretty and wearing lacy Maidenform bra and panty sets and I have only the straws in my pockets to use as barter.
But don’t worry. It’s not going to happen. I am not, after all, a dumb belle.
Note: For another tale of pilfering paranoia, check this out!