Ok, so January means resolutions, and of course, the most important resolution of all: to shave 10 + pounds off your ass. Translation: a busy gym. So here’s my rant about people I can’t stand at the gym.
Orange people. Your fake tan is gross, and, may I remind you, it’s the winter, and we live in the Midwest. Maybe in the late spring and summer you can somehow convince the general populace that you are part Native American or that you spend 40+ hours poolside. In any case, why don’t you complete the illusion by greasing up your half-naked body with baby oil? I’m pretty sure we’d all be fooled.
Gym bunnies. They roll in with their hair in a messy bun, face caked in makeup, a flimsy tank top with four inches of cleavage popping out, and Victoria’s Secret yoga pants rolled down low on their waist. The majority of their time is spent “stretching,” and when they do get on the treadmill, their energy is exerted sashaying their hips. I get it- they already had a good workout at home with their Carmen Electra “Aerobic Striptease” video. Hey Bunny, just go home please.
The Creepy Old Dude. Does this need to be explained? He’s dressed in oddly old-fashioned workout clothes, like high socks with stripes, a sweatband, and way too short running shorts. He looks intent on working out, but really he’s just ogling the gym bunnies. Great. Maybe you two could head towards the stretching room together?
The Bad Ass. Oh yeah, you have a tattoo sleeve of a giant Koi fish and stars and a sparrow, and whatever else rockabilly trend was popular in the late 90s/early 00s. You have zero percent body fat, run 7 miles a day, and only drink organic protein shakes. Thanks for gracing us with your presence. Now I can have someone to ask for advice when I need some fair trade coffee. Don’t you people have your own hipster gym?
The Talkers. I need my iPod to workout. Sometimes I have a buddy to workout alongside me. Never, ever, though, do I make outrageously loud and long phone calls while bouncing up and down on an elliptical machine. Seriously, are you filled with too much self-importance or self-loathing that you can’t be alone for 30 minutes with your thoughts or music? This is the most offensive form of multi-tasking I am privy to in my daily routine. I can hear you over my Lady Gaga. Shut the f**k up.
Ok, so maybe I’m cranky. It’s hard enough to get my fat butt to the gym, and I have to contend with these jerks. But let me tell you who I love: the chubby people. Amen. I’m with you- I celebrate you and your mediocre attempt at fitness because I am one of you. We gotta start somewhere. And Rome wasn’t built in a day. Or, in our case, Jersey City...:)
