Before Brett Favre unpacked his pecker on his iPhone, before Anthony Weiner lived up to his name on Twitter, we had Tiger Woods. I'm not sure if America's most prized golfer actually wielded his 9-iron on camera, but we know he sent hundreds of illicit, philandering sext messages to a whole slew of women -- none of whom were his wife or his Sex Addicts Anonymous sponsor.
Woods recently fired his caddie of 12 years, Steve Williams, apparently forgetting that Williams never signed a confidentiality clause. For more than a decade, this guy likely witnessed Woods trying to sink his ball into dozens of holes. Is it any shock the scorned assistant is now suggesting he'll spill details in an upcoming book?
To be honest, not since lovable-nerd-turned-sex-tape-purveyor Screech wrote "Behind the Bell" have I been so supremely uninterested in a celeb tell-all. Do I need to shell out $24.99 to confirm that Tiger is a scumbag? I can DVR "Celebrity Rehab" and find out all I need to know by watching his ex-mistress Rachel Uchitel implode during group therapy.
Still, Williams' threatened caddie-on-cad tattletaling got me thinking: If one of my workout buddies (or trainer or coach) -- someone who accompanied me on every trip to the gym, every four-mile run, every locker room escapade -- were to go public with tales of my exploits, how humiliated would I be? For female athletes, these are our personal bartenders and hairdressers; we spill our guts and show our ugly sides between reps or when dizzy with exhaustion. To head off any potential disgrace at the pass, I've decided to preemptively out myself, a la US Weekly's "25 Things You Don't Know About Me." Please don't Tweet this:
I once had an orgasm while doing extended leg lifts on a Bosu ball at my gym.
I've since spent four entire espnW.com paychecks purchasing multiple Bosu balls, which I keep strategically placed around my home.
I don't always brush my teeth before hitting the Elliptical, and it's not uncommon for me to wash down a few hardboiled eggs and a spoonful of peanut butter with a Starbucks Americano, pre-workout.
I've freaked out -- to the point of making an appointment at Planned Parenthood -- over what I thought was an STD but was actually a crotch zit brought on by vigorous Spinning.
There's a man at my gym whose nasty body odor smells like rancid taco meat ... and yet every time I pass him, I purposefully inhale.
I've been known to dry-shave my armpits in the locker room while fully dressed.
I automatically perform a Kegel exercise during Plow position in yoga in a desperate attempt to avoid involuntarily, um, farting.
On vacation, I sometimes bring only one sports bra and a single pair of shorts for three days -- and wear the same thing to exercise in every day.
When I'm trying to power through a hardcore workout, I chant the Periodic Table of Elements to the tune of "Frère Jacque." Alternately, I sing the lyrics to "Shoop" by Salt-n-Pepa.
I silently judge people who talk on their cell phones while doing cardio.
Sometimes I fantasize about Giada De Laurentiis while watching her sauté giant chunks of meat on the TV attached to my StepMill.
What secrets are buried in your gym bag?