Gym Time Is Me Time, Go Away

I hate going to the gym.

I mean, I like going to the gym, but I hate that there are other people there.

I like working out.  Okay I don’t like working out, but I like how good I feel after a good workout, so it’s like I like working out.  I like my toned arms and my sort of flat abs and the shape of my legs.  In a sick way I sort of like the burn I feel in those muscles when I work them. It sort of feels like I’m winning an argument.  First they just kind of go along with it, then they get really really angry, and eventually they realize I was right and shape up.  I also like that the major groups seem to have a sort of muscle memory, and that if I don’t work out for a while and they start getting a little flabby, just a session or two and their back in shape.  It’s like they go “oh crap I remember this, we’d better behave or she’s going to kick our butts”.

What I hate is everyone else that goes to the gym.  Not everyone.  Just most of the people who happen to be there when I want to go.  There seems to be a lack of courtesy.  I also do this weird thing where I get really irritated with people who are obviously not working hard enough.  Like the girl walking on a treadmill talking on her cell phone. Listen chica, if you’re able to carry on about the party this weekend and how you’re totally going to give Josh what’s coming to him, you’re not actually working out.  Get off the treadmill so someone who actually wants to break a sweat can use it.

And that’s another thing.  What is with the girls who think sweating is gross?  You are at a gym.  You’re suppose to sweat.  You don’t have to be soaking clothing,

Those are also usually the girls who are way too into how they look at the gym.  Yes your hair is cute down, but it’s going to get in the way. Your adorable shoes do not provide the support you need to not hurt your foot.  That skirt is totally inappropriate for a kickboxing class or anything else where at least one of your legs is in the air 90% of the time.  Did you seriously just apply fresh makeup?  That push-up bra is making me scared for my safety, because I’m pretty sure those things are going to come flying out and attack someone the second you hit a jog.

But it’s not just those girls I can’t stand.  There are the guys too, who are wearing so much cologne/Axe/potpourri that I can smell them before they leave the locker room and they always seem to get on the machine right next to me.  Or the guys on the opposite side of the scale, who smell like they wear the exact same clothes every time and never wear deodorant, and possibly roll around in a dumpster in-between workouts.  You’re not suppose to smell like roses at the gym, but come on!  Or there are the guys who make waaaaaay too much noise lifting.  If you have to sound like you are trying to not burst a muscle, it’s too heavy. I don’t care if you can “technically” lift it, you’re not doing anything other than risking a hernia at that point.

And then there’s the old people.  The old ladies seem to think it’s a social place, and will stand absolutely still on their treadmills or ellipticals and talk.  And they talk loud.  I do not need to know about your colonoscopy thank you.  I really don’t need to hear how cute you think the male nurse was either.  The incline plane is not a place for you to sit and poke at your bunions, people want to use that.  The old men are usually pretty respectful of other gym-goers, but they have this weird obsession with wearing shorts that are way way way too short.  And they always want to sit at the machines where you have to have your feet apart.  And it’s always in front of a mirror.  I’m trying to do kettlebell swings, I do not need to see your tackle sticking out of your shorts.

If it wasn’t for…those people I’d probably be more willing to go the gym regularly.  Well, probably not, but for now I”m going to blame them and my tendency to get irritated with the general population.

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Posted on February 25, 2013, in Life, Misc. Topics (Life) and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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