Me and the Gym

I have this love/hate relationship with the gym. I know I need to go. I am paying for it whether I go or not. I understand the physiological and psychological benefits of working out. However, it's a struggle. Even recently, as I have become somewhat of a health fanatic. It isn't so much the movement I dislike, rather it is the people I encounter when I get there. I don't mind the drive over to the gym which is fairly close. There is always equipment available. It smells clean, looks clean....from the outside looking in on this story, it is a little like Heaven....really. Until you encounter the front desk. After the card scan, it really does go down hill from there.

I am a people person, but I am NOT an everyone person. NO ONE loves their job, or gives the impression of absolute job satisfaction like Gold's Gym customer service people do. I am usually accosted by 2-3 Stepford Wife-looking girls, twenty somethings that have not seen whole food since they applied. I usually walk in with iPod earbuds in place as to not have to listen to the verbal vomit that accompanies me handing my keys over. "Ready for a great workout today?" **BEEP**, their lifeless hands giving me my keys back. No....no I am not. I am actually here to try on the bandana you guys call a tank top. Maybe a speedo or two. Or maybe spend a small fortune on one of your smoothies that will make me see God 8 seconds after the first gulp. Oh, it helps with male stamina and virility? Awesome! Give me two so I can go home and lock my wife in the Red Room and we can pick a new safe word. "Does this polo shirt make me look fat?" Lady, the last time you were fat, the doctor was cleaning the cheese off your face just after birth. Ever since then, your organs are as protected as the yolk in an egg dropped from 30,000 feet. If I go get you a #1 with cheese across the street, will stop talking to me like you give a shit? Yes, my mind is busy during and after the card scan. Bear with me, it gets more annoying.

As if walking into the place wasn't shitty enough, I do my cardio activity in the cardio theater. It's not that I want to avoid all of the short shorts, sleeveless shirts and pedophiles that frequent the social area. I would just rather sweat in the dark, without someone leering next to me wanting to discuss the rapid endorphin release caused by climbing 600 flights of stairs. I get it. You climbed th Empire State building twice. Bra-fucking-vo. That is awesome for you. You're done. "I have so much weight to lose." Really? You still shop at Baby Gap...and you are what, 30? As awesome as it is to be able to wear your kids clothes still, a sweaty camel toe, despite popular men's magazines stating otherwise, is not attractive. If I can see your anatomy, while you towel down, it isn't pretty....ever. Call me old....call me gay....call me blind. Listen, I can appreciate a healthy body, male or female. But shut the fuck about it. Even when you aren't talking about it, how you walk, how you stand, and what you are wearing screams I HAVE DADDY ISSUES! All the fucking steps in the world are not going to make him love you. If you wear spankies and a sports bra...I hate you without you ever speaking a word. You reek of insecurity, even though your outward appearance says you have some semblance of confidence.

At the same time I look to the right and see sweaty snatch, I can usually look to the left and see a plethora of TRAINER shirts helping the morbidly obese find happiness. They do so, however, looking around, advertising the fact they hate their life because they have to help someone who has not helped themselves. They are snooty...100% of the time. I am sure there are some really cool trainers that have found a passion for helping people, but I haven't see one of those people yet. I could be portrayed as bitter, but these people, tasked to help others find happiness, prove to me every time I go that being skinny does not make you happy. neither do white teeth and 2T shorts, apparently. I imagine that there is this sense of accomplishment watching other people sweat, but I do not see any one of these trainers solving the problem at its core. Hell, there is no money in prevention. I think the best thing they can do is help these people so much that they never see them again. I get looks from these trainers like "you reallllllly need to be over here with us." Yeah? That is as likely to happen as me Googling "STARR JONES NAKED." I like hearing some skinny asshole tell me "just one more rep" as much as women want to hear from their prom date "aw c'mon....just the tip." So, as you peer at me through your beady fucking eyes and give me the fake smile that is meant to say "I am so glad you came in today, fatass," remember that, despite my outward appearance, I am much happier than you. Even though this post indicates otherwise.

I love your crotch rocket. It's sunny, warm, and the fact you roll it up to the bike racks to park on the sidewalk, as if to say "I FUCKING ARRIVED" is....how do they say it in France? Fucking stupid. Yup, you got your weight belt, your gym bag full of what I am not sure since you rolled up ready to go and your sunglasses, the HOOTERS lanyard with your keys....you are a walking billboard of health and wellness. Have you ever just watched these people walk in to a Gold's Gym? I have. It's great. The ONLY plan they have when they walk in is to attempt to set the record for the most eyes on them in 10 seconds. Then they walk over and sit on the couch, pull out there phone to undoubtedly check in on Facebook "at the Gym, getting my sweat on - At Gold's Gym, Richland, WA." Then they text....who knows who to make plans for afterwards. Then they stand up and stretch, check their phone again, look around and count the eyes. Over to the free weights they go for a testosterone flex-fest. I can't remember the last time someone asked me how much I benched. It could be that I give off the vibe of my max bench press is about as relevant as Macaulay Culkin. I always like to tell the meat heads that they have a spider on the shoulder and watch them try to scrape it off. Nine times out of ten they cannot touch their own shoulders because the pipes are in the way. They make T-Rex seem like Manute Bol. The only thing I can say is, if all of these guys were buddies, they would never let each other skip out on leg day. I haven't seen this much disproportion since I watched Dolly Parton sing at the Grand Ol' Opry. It's just awkward....and not necessary. To each their own I suppose.

I could discuss the cock fest in the shower, the self-gawking in the mirrors, or even the fashion show that is gym attire at this place. But in all reality, it simply adds to the dysfunction that is Gold's Gym. The alternative for me, I suppose, is to sit around and get fatter. But my doctor has advised me that doing this goes against his better judgment. So, I will just go...and do everything I can to not go to jail. But don't try to talk to me....because chances are, you have a spider on your shoulder.