I’m a sucker for those late-night weight-loss infomercials and, as a result, own a library of workout DVDs and a machine that transforms into a torturous, in-home gym. At first I enjoyed exercising on my own schedule in the privacy of my home. I wore my ratty, spandex shorts from the early 1990s and didn’t care if I looked like a Jane Fonda reject.
After months of listening to the same peppy instructors encouraging me to sweat through the pain, I wanted to kick box the television. It didn’t help that my daily exercise regimen included an audience of snickering children.
I ditched the DVDs in favor of a membership at a women’s gym. Now I actually look forward to my workouts, but this enjoyment comes with a price. And I’m not talking about the cost of a one-year membership. While most of the gym women are considerate, there are those who make the experience less than pleasurable. They are:
Mirror Hogs: These are the women who run into class late and scoot in front to get a spot by the mirror. Coincidentally, they’re the same people who lack coordination and throw the entire class off.
Yappers: After living on rabbit food for a month, the last thing I want to hear about is your orgasmic experience with a seven-layer brownie cake.
Gym Poopers: These ladies drop their stink bombs off in the gym bathroom before hitting the treadmills. I understand the need to clean out the bowels before working out, but please do us all a favor and take your Milk of Magnesia AFTER you exercise.
DNA Swappers: Some people think nothing of leaving sweat puddles on the equipment or hacking up a lung while recovering from the flu. DNA samples are not necessary unless a forensics team needs them after drawing your chalk outline on the gym floor.
Chronic Farters: These women have blowholes like whales and no interest in corking it for the sake of other people’s olfactory systems. When I walk into their fart clouds, my nose hairs feel singed and my eyes water as if I’ve been hit by tear gas.
Exhibitionists: Women who come to the gym in shorts that scream, “Cooch Alert,” and tank tops begging for a Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. Go buy a damn bra.
Equipment Hogs: These people get lost in a daydream and sit for an hour on the machine instead of doing their reps. Makes me wish I had a pocket defibrillator or a Taser to shock them into moving.
Attention Seekers: You know the type. Surgically-enhanced bodies and yet they whine, “Oh my gawd, I need to lose twenty pounds!” Just. Shut. Up.
The real heroes of the gym are the seventy-plus crowd of ladies still shaking their retired money makers in class. I admire their fortitude and hope to be just like them when I’m older. Flatulence and all.