I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “For someone who spends so much time at the gym, she doesn’t really talk a whole hell of a lot about it.” You’re thinking, “And I’m actually kinda relieved, because I can’t stand when people talk about their workouts.”
Well, I’m right there with you on that one, bub. I don’t like to discuss my workouts. Unless I’m asked, I won’t tell you what I do there, and even if you do ask and I do respond, I’m not likely to dwell on it beyond the most basic of details.
What I will talk about, though, is the Other People At The Gym. Because, after all, they’re fair game. Their shenanigans are a whole of a hell lot more interesting than my fanatical workouts. Trust me.
I have plenty of anecdotes involving these people, but today I’ll only touch on two isolated tidbits that I hope never repeat themselves.
One of the offenders is a “trainer” (use of quotes wholly warranted), who, when he’s not busy ruining the bodies of his clients by guiding them through a multitude of dangerous exercises using hideously improper form, turns his special brand of body-wrenching, back-breaking, spine-crushing, teeth-gnashing torture on himself. His vast array of grunts and groans, some of which are genuine, but the bulk of which sound manufactured, are reminiscent of an exceptionally bad amateur porno flick; borne, however, not of concentration but of constipation. Between sets, he paces as if he wants anyone watching to regard him as the caged animal he no doubt imagines himself to be.
Today, as with every other day, he wore a weightlifting belt. Ordinarily he fastens it appropriately, tightening it just enough so it won’t slip or slide but just slack enough to accommodate the basic activity of respiration. Well, today he had it cinched so tightly around his waist that even Scarlett O’Hara would have been envious. This guy, not too tall (5’10” tops), broad but not “buff” (probably 200 lbs.), suddenly had an hourglass figure. I’d be surprised if his waist, cinched the way it was, measured 25 inches (the size of mine).
The other offender, spotted yesterday, was a woman. A member of the gym, probably in her late thirties. Dark hair. She strutted over to a treadmill as if she didn’t have a gut hanging over her flair-legged, low-rise terrycloth pants and floppy medium-sized tits that were flirting seriously with gravitational disaster.
Now, nothing says, “Yes indeed, folks, I’m here for a serious workout” than white pants sans underwear and the flimsiest of pale pink bra tops with minimal, if any, support. It was bad enough that all of us unfortunate enough to be on cardio equipment behind her had to be treated to the sight of her various body parts running amok. But worse was that even the barest sheen of sweat would render her entire get-up outrageously see-through, and given the efficiency of the air-conditioning system, her chest would easily accommodate both her handbag and the jacket she should have thrown over her ensemble in the first place. Fortunately, however, I finished what I was doing before I was forced to witness that inevitability.
But as much as these other people annoy the living fuck out of me with their ridiculous workouts or asinine get-ups, they do provide me with a level of entertainment that I just can’t find anywhere else.
There are oh so many more offenders. Stay tuned.