The Gym

This is one of the most confusing places I’ve ever been, and I’m clearly not alone in my confusion. That said, I’m confused for far different reasons than the rest of these characters.

The Pageant Queen: full hair and makeup, accessories, matching outfit. This little lady seems to have the treadmill confused with a runway. In all fairness, if you see one of these dolls on a treadmill, help her out and point her towards the elliptical or pilates class; no shot she’d risk a workout strenuous enough to mess with her makeup and coif.

Mr. Spandex: all through junior high and high school, girls are instructed to dress conservatively enough to leave some things to the imagination; this guy clearly never heard that speech. Man-dex alone are offensive, light grey man-dex with sweat stains and vivid outlines should be illegal. Honestly, why bother wearing pants?

Loud & Proud: lifting weights is meant to be challenging; apparently, to some men, it is equivalent to severe constipation, passing kidney stones, or being quartered by horses. I hear you. We all hear you. Unless you’re birthing a child through your urethra, you have no excuse to make those noises.

The Power Couple: the couple that sweats together, looks like assholes together. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a couple showing up to the gym, doing their separate workouts, then leaving together. There is absolutely something wrong with holding hands on neighboring ellipticals, spotting each other with “you’ve got it baby!”, and two-person, deep-thigh stretches.

The Allergist: whether people are incessantly lifting up their shirt, forgo a shirt altogether, or opt for shorts that flash some undercarriage, there is far too much skin at the gym. The only feasible explanation I’ve come up with is that approximately 7 out of 10 gym-goers are allergic to cotton. Thankfully, the severity of the allergy at my gym seems to vary based on level of fitness; more fit means more allergic. Regardless, keep your clothes on, folks.

And then there’s me…



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