But I'm Not Bitter
I'm going to place an order for a large sign. I'm going to request some really nice paper stock in a 3' by 10' size. I'm going to make the letters raised and shiny. And I'm going to use a nice font. In a beautiful italic typeface, maybe Palatino, the message will read:
Don't Wear Your Fucking Sorority Letters to the Motherfucking Gym
And then I will post my custom sign directly above the front desk at my tiny, crappy Midtown gym.
I like to go to the gym to release tension. I like punching the air. I like kicking imaginary objects. I like classes that make you do 50 non-girl push-ups and then do biceps curls with heavy weights. I do not like bright-pink T-shirts calling my attention to the following:
Chi-O Barnyard Bash '04!
Alpha Beta Bitch Semi-Formal '05!
Lambda Lambda Chi Date Rape Philanthropy '06!
When I remember the sorostitutes I had to push my way past in college or listen to form words and speak during lecture classes, I want to beat the person who jogged my memory. And that, sorority gym girl, is you.
I'm happy your parents bought you friends who all look like you. I'm happy that you learned to store important house rules information in a binder with pockets. And I'm happy that that goddamned pink T-shirt probably cost Mummy and Daddy $279.40 if the cost of your entire Greek experience was averaged out among Natty Lights, drunken hookups, and black pants over four years.
But seeing it in my face at my gym as you loudly ask your sorority sister workout buddy over your iPod racket if "we're doing cardio, abs, and weights tonight? 'Cause I don't want to be at the gym until, like, 10"? Not cool. In fact, we midtown workers, with our black dress socks and tennis shoes, unhappy cubicle-life scowls, and ratty Umbro shorts will destroy your gym-going soul. Slowly -- oh, so slowly -- you'll realize that no John Mayer lookalikes work out here. In fact, no attractive men at all work out here. Or women, for that matter. We're fatties, we're pasty-white Caspers, we're unhappy, we just want to get out of here so we can go home and eat a frozen chicken pot pie, and -- P.S. -- we hate you.
So take your blond ponytail, your lariat, that God-awful T-shirt, and any memories of your totally traumatic hazing back in 2000 and get yourself a membership at Crunch or Equinox, which is where any self-respecting sorority bimbo can get her anorexia on among hordes of muscle-bound Murray Hill jocks.