LOS ANGELES, CA — If you’re in Los Angeles today, steer clear of the free weights in the Culver City 24 Hour Fitness Super Sport. At 2:04 PM, my gym crush asked me how many sets I had left and immediately turned my lower body into an overflowing drainage ditch.
As a meteorologist, I take flash flood warnings seriously. Floods can ruin homes and destroy lives. So could what my body did when I weakly muttered that I had two sets left.
This situation did not come without warning. It’s been monitored for the past three months, since I first saw the black-haired-blue-eyed muscle nugget whose arms are as thick as my calves. Some days it seemed the problem had subsided. I had not seen him for a full week before the event—I had stopped daydreaming about slipping in the showers and having him catch me, saving me with a knowing laugh.
Research now indicates that he was probably just on vacation.
Unfortunately his sudden reappearance, a fresh buzz from Supercuts, and this new level of contact (verbal recognition that I am a living being) created a high pressure system in my nethers. At that point, the flat bench was the coast of Thailand in July: monsoon season.
I am blessed to report only one casualty and no fatalities, unless you count my dignity. A pair of Nike gym shorts is likely to recover after a hot cycle washing, although fabric shrinkage may be permanent. Activity has returned to normal in the surrounding area with minimal disruption.
Thicc Dreamnugget was still at the bench when I left. All 5’10” of him seemed perfectly unaffected in his Black Panther themed Underarmor compression shirt, the fourth superhero in his wardrobe.
The major concern now is if another extreme weather event is going to rock my grundle. Scientists (me and my work-wife Becky) agree that temperatures in the gym have been rising since I started ascribing personality traits to Tom, which is almost definitely not his name but I haven’t asked.
Craig (changed my mind, he doesn’t have Tom energy) was even seen taking a phone call in the middle of a workout, which is a nightmare because texting exists. The call in question, inviting a “bro” out for dinner at Chili’s because “they have dope ass pasta,” should stop any sudden downpours from passing through my vas deferens. So long as I don’t insert myself into a fantasy about him not being able to pay, I hope this will not happen again.
But it may be too little too late. During a recent sex dream, Bryce (he’s more of a Bryce) told me that he loved my reporting on the 2017 drought while playing with my hair. If this pattern continues, there won’t be another drought in LA any time soon.
Author’s note: To clarify, by flood I mean I came in my underpants.
