Attack of the N.O.G.s

There are three stereotypical things a guy will supposedly do as he approaches 40:

1 – He’ll buy a convertible.
2 – He’ll join a gym.
3 – He’ll trade the ol' ball & chain in for a trophy wife.

Well, let’s set the record straight, at least in my case. First off, yes – I do drive a convertible. But I’ve wanted one since I was 6, so it wasn’t a spur of the moment “Oh, shit I’m turning forty – I’d better buy a hot car” decision.

As far as the trophy wife biz goes, um...no thanks. I’m mighty fond of the Lovely Mrs. G., and I have every intention of becoming an old coot with her right next to me. She’s my trophy, and that’s all I need. Or want. Or can handle. Besides, I can’t imagine myself being saddled with a giggly 20 year old any longer. If she can’t remember the 80’s in vivid first-person detail, then we’d have nothing to talk about.

But joining the gym? That’s exactly what Mrs. G and I recently did. After having a membership to the South Sioux City community indoor swimming pool for the past year, we decided to escape that grody-to-the-max dirty facility and pay the extra few bucks a month needed for a membership at the Siouxland Y. (The community pool showers were cleaned about once every decade – they were literally a science project waiting to happen, they were that disgusting. And their solution for cleaning the pool itself? “Add another gallon of Clorox, boys!” If it wasn’t for swim goggles, you’d be blind by the end of the first lap.)

So we up and joined the Y. Treadmills, elliptical machines that literally work your ass off, Nautilus Primitive Torture Devices, a basketball court, and yes – a swimming pool where the water won’t peel off the first three layers of your skin.

We also kicked in the extra $5 a month for a “fitness membership”, which includes complimentary use of their scratchy towels and access to the “Y Athletic Club”; i.e. the “good” locker rooms. Aren’t we special? We don’t have to hob-nob with the ordinary folks – nope, we get to use the deluxe facilities. There you’ll find a steam room, a large locker room, TVs, a spa, massages (for an extra fee), and oh, yeah – lots and lots of N.O.G.s – Naked Old Guys.

Now, I’ve never been much of a “gym” person – in my freshman year of high school I was only 4 foot 11, so I wasn’t exactly a giant among athletic giants in school. Gym class was miserable for me for the 4 months it lasted; I’m probably the only guy on the face of the planet who says “Thank God” that he got Hepatitis B, because it meant an immediate P.E. waiver for the rest of my school days.

But here I am, 25 years later, reintroducing myself to the world of locker rooms. And I really can’t help but notice – since they’re EVERYWERE – that the Athletic Club is jam packed with Naked Old Guys.

Seriously; you can’t turn your head without seeing some old fart’s Johnson right in front of you. They walk around naked, they stand and chat naked, they sit and watch Don Imus on TV naked – it just goes on and on. It’s Attack of the N.O.G.s. Most of these guys I never see outside of the Athletic Club – i.e. they’re never upstairs using the weight room or the exercise equipment. I really suspect that most of the N.O.G.s just get up in the morning, come down to the Y, take off their clothes, and wander for an hour or two in their wrinkled up birthday suits.

Now, being the macho guy I am, I’m proud to admit that yes, I too have a John Thomas. I just don’t feel the need to show it to the world. But the N.O.Gs? They absolutely love showing it off. I asked Mrs. G. if the ladies in her locker room do the same thing, but she said that they did not, so apparently N.O.G. syndrome is strictly an old male codger kind of thing. A leisure time activity, if you will. Yes, horseracing may be the Sport of Kings, but standing around with your willie hanging out for hours on end is apparently the Sport of Old Dudes.

The worst part? I’m trying to get dressed and one of the N.O.G.s will come up and talk to me. Yes, yes – I’m enjoying the Y. Yes, the facilities are very nice. No, I’m only 39. Why, do I look that old?

Meanwhile, two thoughts are running through my head:

1 – Must. Avert. Eyes.
2 – Good Lord, man – haven’t you ever heard of a bikini wax? I hear a Weed Whacker will work wonders. If nothing else, try some Nair, for God’s sake. There’s no need to look like a hairy ape with a long nose.

So there’s my adventures with the N.O.G.s. I can’t say that I particularly enjoy it, but at least it give me something to write about.

Now – will someone hand him a towel? Please?