At Least They're Committed

I’d only walked an eighth of a mile on the treadmill at the Paul Derda Recreation Center when I was overcome by an epiphany: I really like guys. The treadmill faces the window to the basketball courts where there are always various and sundry sweaty bodies bopping back and forth across the hardwood floors. There are other treadmills that face walls and clocks and televisions, but I like this one because it’s the same as watching a silent movie, getting to know the characters through the glass by slight body shifts, the force of their throws and the width of their smiles. Yesterday, a young family played with a 3-year-old overzealous son and Julia, about 18 months, who apparently didn’t have near enough padding on her little butt to cushion her fall after being elbowed by above mentioned brother and who felt very abused and bruised upon leaving the court. At any rate, today was more interesting because it started with about four guys, mid to late 20-somethings, one of whom reminded me of my favorite heart-throb from high school: slender, scruffy, dark, beautiful. The two-on-two lasted only ’til the eighth-of-a-mile mark when again and again one, two or more guys wandered near the court and the action would stop. Fourteen to 40, it didn’t matter, when new men came in, teams were reassigned and play swiftly resumed. No chatter, no discussion. Beautiful. As new players approached, HSHT (high school heart throb) evolved into the leader, not in shots made or steals, but rather in ensuring everyone got a shot. He’d drive to the basket, then send a bullet to a teammate he’d likely never met before.

(I’m totally watching Tim Burton’s misunderstood and brilliant “Batman Returns” as I write this. Catwoman, masterfully played by Michelle Pfeiffer, is trashing the department store, “You poor guys, always confusing your pistols with your privates.”)

Do you think women would be so inclusive? If your first inclination is “yes,” guess again. I was the little girl standing on the sidelines or the sidewalk or the side street waiting to get invited to play. My mom recalls once when she encouraged me — at age 5 — to approach a group of giggling, hair flipping females and simply ask to play. I walked to them, standing a cautious six feet away, and when they at last could ignore me no longer, I held out my stuffed yellow bunny, a leporidaen sacrifice for the price of inclusion. Mom cried. Yup, I was the one who was the proverbial ‘last one picked.’ Sure, now I’m a leader. Hell, yeah, I’d let them play, invite them in and secretly compare how much better I look — and move — than they do. So, yeah, I guess I’m just as cat(woman)ty as the rest. (“As I was saying, I’m a woman and can’t be taken for granted. Life’s a bitch, and now so am I.”)

Oh, yay! Here comes my favorite line . . . that for which the blog is titled. “Sickos never scare me; at least they’re committed.”

Yes. Men are good. It’s that simple. Unfortunately for me, on a personal level, HSHT exited the court a moment after the treadmill kicked me off at the hour mark. We met at the water fountain, me one step ahead, him standing back a respectful four feet and no doubt thinking, “damn, she looked a lot younger and thinner from 20 feet away and through the glass!”

(“He didn’t even lose a limb, an eyeball, bladder control,” OK, that was Penguin . . . but he has a few absolutely precious lines. Love Tim Burton.)

Did I make any kind of point? Maybe not. But, with the snow on the ground, not being willing to go into work to exercise, you can bet I’ll be back at the rec center tomorrow. After all, there are stories to unfold and I’m “the light of this city; and I am its mean twisted soul. . . ” Christopher Walken, don’t even get me started on how good he is in this movie and in general!