Before we could become official douchenuggets, I mean gym members, we had to take a tour of all the super kewl and not at all confusing-looking machines then fill out some paperwork where I agreed not to sue them when I inevitably break my neck from improper machine use.
This gym does not cater to juiceheads, so if you desire to obtain muscles the size of baby elephants go throw yourself off a bridge because you’re probably an asshole.
To help ensure they do not attract the wrong band of merry muscle makers, their free weights only go up to 75 pounds and grunting is absolutely forbidden. Because no one ever grunts when lifting five pounders. Definitely not *cough* me.
I do hope moaning, groaning, heaving breathing and panting are acceptable because the sounds of my workout routine more closely resemble an obscene phone call than a girl with a cellulite vendetta.
The final part of the application process is to sign a paper that says you agree to, among other things, not judge other gym members.
The hell? No judging? The promise of criticizing my fellow human beings is one of the top three things that get me out of bed each day. (Bacon and the allure of my couch being the other two.)
Kidding, kidding. I think it’s great that this gym is trying to foster a welcoming, accepting environment. But unless they also possess the power of mind control, a whole lotta judging be going on. But I give them an ‘A’ for effort.
No one was more surprised than I when, just one day after becoming an official card-carrying member of the I-workout-so-feel-better-about-eating-cake-batter-for-dinner-society, I actually went back to the gym
Look at that lady. She’s older than your grandmother. If this were a race she would’ve smoked your ass.
Decreasing the resistance already? It’s been thirty seconds.
Need water? You’re pathetic.
I thought getting in shape was supposed to make you feel better about yourself, but my self-esteem is shot.
I didn’t start judging everyone else until I got on the elliptical. You see, I’m what you might call a sweater. No, not an article of clothing you wear when it’s cold outside, but a sweat-er. As in one who sweats. A lot. Normally, when I’m running through the dangerous streets of my ‘hood, I wear a headband to keep the salty secretions from running down my face. But when I went to the gym I was all, it’s inside, it’s air conditioned, I don’t need it! I also brought a towel with me but decided to leave it in the car because it’s inside, it’s air conditioned, I don’t need it!
Stupid, stupid fool.
After twenty minutes on the bike and five minutes on the elliptical, I looked like I had just gotten out of the pool.
And I don’t mean this:
Kinda like this, but with more sweat and in-general disgusting-ness:
I attempted to wipe the sweat from my face, the greatest act of futility ever, and began looking around the gym. That’s when I realized no one else was sweating. Let the judging of others begin! The two women next to me looked the like they were sipping mai tais on the beach while being fanned by elephant-muscled men in banana hammocks.
Honestly, if you don't sweat get out of the gym. I'm pretty sure that's the fifth commandment of gym etiquette.
By the time I was finished on the elliptical there was a puddle of sweat on the floor below me. True. Story. The gym supplies paper towels and a cleaning solution for patrons to wipe down the machines after use. I, however, used the paper towels to mop up my face. I tried to hide my shame by facing the wall while doing so, but I’m sure people were watching. After all, who wouldn’t want to see the Incredible Girl Who Sweats A Lot?
In case you’re wondering, I did clean my machine after giving myself a sponge bath. I’m not that disgusting, people.
It’s been three days and I haven’t been back. But don’t worry, I’m making cinnamon apple donuts tonight, so all is well.