dress code

on a lazy weekday afternoon, i found myself at the stanford gym pumping a little iron, some andrew bird playing in my ears courtesy of my iPod nano. i stood waiting for an enormous -- and flamingly homosexual -- samoan man to finish on the chest fly machine. likely, i was contemplating how embarrassed i should be that i'd have to remove about 75% of the weight if i hoped not to tear my arms from their sockets while performing the exercise. but my thoughts were interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

a stocky black man introduced himself, identifying himself as the assistant general manager of the gym. now he was a bit too big to have a napoelon complex, but nonetheless, he seemed to take his position of power with great seriousness as if he were in charge of homeland security or national intelligence. in my mind, assistant manager of a gym is sort of like a junior cashier at mcdonalds, but that's beside the point. still, i think mr. manager enjoyed his pseudo alpha position.

he said (paraphrase):

"you're in violation of the dress code. we don't allow cargo shorts. but I'll let you slide this time."

gee thanks, that was magnanimous of you. sainthood in your future perhaps, mr. manager, for such acts of unmatched kindness. being the curious soul that i am, i decided to inquire. it turns out the buttons, allegedly, ruin "our upholstery".

yes, he referred to that sticky, pleather-esque substance as upholstery. funny, i thought the bodily excretions of the hundreds of profusely sweating women and men seeping into the upholstery, making it about as virulent as mutated anthrax and fragrant as an unwiped ass after a night of spicy indian food, was the real problem.

silly me.