Middle-aged men’s bikini team to the rescue

Of all the places I’ve taken you, dear readers, this may in fact be the strangest one yet. This story hails from the steam-filled, block-walled confines of the men’s locker room of my local YMCA.

Although a necessary crossroads of fitness-minded humanity, the locker room nevertheless stands as one of the most uncomfortably awkward places on Earth for a substantial portion of the population.

And while a high school locker room may be a bastion of fiery pregame anticipation, loquacious half-time inspiration and raucous post-game celebration, the locker room at the YMCA witnesses none of that. It is simply a place where men of every age, shape and size and from all walks of life desperately attempt to accomplish the rituals of post-workout cleanliness while avoiding eye contact, along with anything beyond the most brief and basic conversation.

It was there amid the underwear- and bath towel-clad populace I noticed a fellow fitness aficionado in obvious distress. Clothed only in a towel and flip-flops, he struggled in the corner at the unopened door of a locker.

“This is unbelievable,” he groaned while fumbling with the hasp of a padlock. “I put my lock through the hole in the latch handle and closed the door. Now it’s completely stuck.”

Already suited up for a swim and just about to head to the pool, I broke from my typical silent self-focus.

“You know, I used that same doggone corner locker last week, and it took me five minutes to get the thing open,” I said. “Mind if I give it a try?”

His situation was the same as mine had been, only worse. I had freed my own padlock from the latch through a series of twists and contortions. The hasp of this fellow’s lock, now jammed against the abutting locker, was of just the right size and geometry that it was literally impossible to make it swing free of the latch hole. The locker may as well have been welded shut — and with every item of this hapless fellow’s clothing inside.

Word traveled quickly among the ranks of the partially clothed, and the towel guy was soon surrounded by a half-dozen helpful underwear-clad patrons. Boxers, briefs and trunks of all sorts, the scene suggested the starting line of a summer camp undie run for middle-aged men.

Within minutes all manner of overtly masculine solutions were proposed: pry bars, hack saws, bolt cutters, the Jaws of Life. If one of us had produced a nail file, we’d have commenced with the breakout immediately. One man suggested we get word to the front desk; another offered tools from his truck in the parking lot. Yet another volunteered to drive to his home several miles away to retrieve the necessary gadgetry. If even one of our number had actually been dressed, the crisis could have ended in mere minutes.

Given the men and minds assembled, I soon judged the situation to be fully under control and decided to carry on with my plan to head for the pool, even if it meant I would miss out on the raucous victory celebration once our new comrade’s clothing was freed. The last thing I needed was a cooler full of Gatorade dumped over my head.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.