I recently joined a gym.  It’s been a while since I’ve had a membership.  I usually prefer to work out in the privacy and sanctity of my own home.  I do this for many reasons.  At home you don’t have to worry about that weird grunting face you make on your last rep.  You just grunt freely, knowing no one is watching.  But at the gym, there’s a whole host of other difficulties to deal with.  Most importantly, a litany of douchebags you won’t encounter at home.

First, I’d like to send a message to Loud-Walking-Around-the-Gym-Talking-on-her-Cel-Phone-Lady:  Shut the fuck up!  I just don’t care if your kids don’t have enough milk to make macaroni and cheese or that your son spilled grape juice all over your other kid’s backpack.  Have some courtesy and take your phone outside!  The baby sitter’s got it handled.  The kids will survive until you get home.  The house isn’t on fire.  Arnold Schwarzenegger said concentration is key when chiseling a finely honed physique.  I can’t concentrate when your bitching at little Bobby to quit pulling little Susie’s hair.  Hot tip: put your cel phone down and spend your time at the gym doing stuff you should be doing at the gym.  Home = talking on the phone time; gym = lifting some fucking weights time.

Second, while on the subject of phones, a note to Text-Message-Hogging-the-Bench-Press-Guy: put your phone down and spend a little more time doing, oh, some weight lifting!  There are chairs all over the gym.  In between sets, go rest and enjoy the miracles of modern communication on one of them.  If you’re at the gym only to send text messages, then go find a nice cafe somewhere.  If you’re there to lift weights then lift some damned weights! Don’t sit there on the bench nimbly pounding out a series of inane text messages while you rest up for your next set, whenever that may be.  Your thirty seconds of lifting followed by an eleven minute rest/text period just won’t cut it for me.  I’m waiting to use the piece of equipment you’re bottle-necking.  Enlighten your buddy Steve on the ample nature of your girlfriend’s tits and where you should meet for a beer, at a later time.  Now, concentrate on getting a couple reps in and move on to a new piece of equipment!

Third, a message to Old-Guy-in-the-Corduroys-Who-Doesn’t-Know-how-to-Properly-Dress-for-the-Gym-nor-Adjust-the-Machines-and-Clanks-the-Weights-Guy.  I know that you’re old and in your day, you didn’t have weights or gym memberships.  In your mind, you can work out in street clothes.  You don’t need any fancy gym clothes.  And, in your book, gym memberships were for guys a little light in the loafers.  I get it.  You’re inexperienced.  You went through the depression.  You didn’t have shit when you grew up.  Your idea of weight lifting in your day was picking up sacks of bulk flour at the corner five and dime and loading them onto your horse and buggy.  I feel your pain.  I know your doctor told you you need to do something to stem your type II diabetes or your going to lose a leg to gangrene.  I understand.   I applaud your efforts.  But please, put away your German stubbornness and learn how to properly set up a machine before you use it.  The weight stack shouldn’t slam into the top of the machine on one motion and it shouldn’t slam back down when you finish.  You’ve got to be thinking that you’re grossly fucking up the exercise when you hear “Clank” “Slam”  “Clank”  “SLAM” every time you move that ten pound weight up and down.

Fourth, let’s not overlook Obese-Enjoying-a-Good-Book-and-a-Sugary-Sports-Drink-on-the-Recumbent-Bike-Lady.  Man, do I applaud your efforts to whittle down Mt. Flabmore.  It makes me so happy to see that you’re doing something about a situation that’s obviously difficult and distressing for you but, exercise is about work.  You do have to expend some energy when working out.  It’s kind of the point of the whole endeavor.  I’m relatively certain you will be best served to drink some water, put away your book, and move the pedals in circles more furiously than three revolutions per minute.  It’s painful to watch.  I have to look away when she’s in.  Seeing her is like looking into a black hole of flab, sloth, and malaise.  There’s a reason they don’t put a deck chair, milkshake blender, and a place to hold your tube of girl scout cookies on those things.

It always seems like High-intensity-Work-Out-Guy enjoys taking the treadmill or elliptical right next to me.  High-intensity-Work-Out-Guy usually reeks of B.O. that smells like a combination of chicken noodle soup and sour day-old laundry that was left in the washing machine too long.  It’s an acrid, sharp, pungence that makes you light headed and nearly lose your balance on the treadmill.  Usually, this guy is engaging in some sort of ritual sprint regimen that causes sweat to spray out of him like a lawn sprinkler spewing reclaimed sewer water.  I mean, come on dude, give me a little room.  High-intensity-Work-Out-Guy doesn’t realize that proper exercise equipment selection is akin to choosing the right urinal when entering a men’s room.  Don’t take the one right next to someone else when there’s a perfectly fine station open just a couple doors down.  Everyone likes a little buffer when sweating aerobically.  For god’s sakes, take your baloney breath fumes and greasy hair and move the next machine over.

Then, there’s Grunt-Man.  He listens to his music so loudly in his headphones he doesn’t realize the grotesque sounds that come out of his body while he’s working out.  With every repetition, the guy grunts like a Becker-Sampras tennis match.  My message to him:  “OK, we all know that you are lifting extremely heavy weights and it causes exertion.  Many people have a tendency to make a noise or two when doing so.  Please, for the love of God and all that is good and holy, put a cap on the volume level!“  When I’m working out, I shouldn’t have to stand clear fearing you’re about to involuntarily squeeze out a deuce during one of your dead lifts.

Then, let’s not forget Husky-Dropping-the-Weights-Kid.  This guy is not in good shape but desperately wants to be.  He’s got a 48 inch waist and looks like he’d make a great offensive lineman.  Strong but not in good condition.  His muscle tone is screaming out for the 25 lb. dumbells but he always goes for the 40’s.  Newsflash to Husky-Dropping-the-Weights-Kid:  “You can’t lift the 40’s!  He wants to get in shape all in one day.  Every time he tries to military press the 40’s he drops them to the floor, usually clanging them into the metal base of a neighboring bench. And, he runs with the treadmill set at 8.0 when he should concentrate on two weeks at 3.2.  Grab an effing weight you can handle dude and ease your way up to decathalon condition on the treadmill!  Slow and steady wins the race big boy.

Contrarily, Bouncy-Girl has become one of my gym favorites.  She’s about 23, cute, and looks like she just had a baby.  Or, one too many Friday nights out with the girls and fourteen blended daiquiris. Whatever it is, something’s caught up to her and damn it, she’s going to do something about it!  She hits the elliptical hard!  Her knees go about three feet in the air and all of her bounces with every revolution.  She’s a marvel with her pony tail waving up and down along with all the rest of her adorable little daiquiri-induced jiggliness.  Bouncy-Girl would be perfect for a buddy of mine.  He says he likes his women like he likes his steak: with just a little marbling.  Bouncy-Girl has marbling in all the right places and refreshingly counteracts the ill-effects of High-intensity-Work-Out-Guy.

Finally, we can’t forget Changing-the-Channel-on-the-TV-Without-Asking-Woman.  I can’t tell you how often I’ll be working out and hooked into a basketball game when some crusty churl will step onto her treadmill, grab the remote, and flip the channel I’m watching over to a Golden Girls marathon on Hallmark.  Marquette is about to beat Syracuse and there’s a minute left and she turns the channel to that shit?  I mean, I understand – nothing inspires me to squat 500 pounds more than looking at Bea Arthur’s lithe frame.  But, how about a little courtesy?  Wouldn’t an, “Excuse, me, are you watching this show?” be in order before grabbing the remote?  No, she just steps up and changes the channel like this entire gym set-up was magically part of her living room.  No one else but her in here.