“Drop it like a squat.”
-Gym saying, trademarked by Neat Print
So, another day. Another workout.
The Orangetheory classes are my choice of torture. It’s absolutely the best kind of torture (which I suppose makes me a bit of a sadist). It has whipped me into probably the greatest shape of my life, and has given me an excuse to eat more than I could otherwise (bonus!).
Now that I’m settling into a regular routine, I am taking time to look around. And judge. I mean, come on. When you’re in a group training program as I am, there’s a lot to see.
And, I guess I’m getting old. Old and crotchety. I’ve gotten to a point in my workouts where I’m beginning to get picky. Picky about the trainer, picky about my neighbors, picky about the theme of the workouts. . .
I’m easily irritated by the behavior of some of my fellow gym rats.
Here’s what I mean:
The Cool Kids
I’m on the outskirts, I imagine. I’m there every week. I don’t hang with the cool kids, but by proxy, I imagine I might be seen as one. I know my way around, how things work, and I get irritated by people not respecting the routine. And I don’t mean new people. I mean the ones who just don’t listen and don’t care because they basically own the place. And, the worst thing about them? They are the chattiest group in the gym.
I don’t know if they do it to kind of show off that they can push to a 11 mile-an-hour run and still have breath in their bodies to laugh about last night’s party? They will often try to engage the trainer in conversation to show they’re “tight.” And they almost always get in to reserve their place on the treadmill for themselves and their pack before class starts (not allowed!).
But they’re cool. And they’re hot. But they’re irritating. And hot. And, yes, I aspire to be like the cool kids. Which makes them more irritating.
So, there is always that one chick that totally busts it up. I mean, the reps she manages to complete? Wow! The distances she rows and runs? Holy Mother-of-God, she is super woman! Totally awesome! Right?
She’s a big, fat, cheater.
She’s jumping off before she’s done with the distance we’re told to row. Then, she’s cutting the number of exercises short, just so she can get back to cutting her distances short (again!)
Now, look. The workout is supposed to be your own regardless of what is being thrown at you. People have limits. People get injured. People are hungover. I get that.
But that’s not what this is!
End of the time? Trainer goes, “So, who rowed 1000 meters? 1100 meters? 1500 meters?”
Her little hand stays thrown enthusiastically in the air until she’s the last one standing and gets a high five from the trainer.
The worst part? She’s made me actually care how she cheats herself out of the whole experience! Like it matters in my life one way or another.
Well, ok. I’m jealous of the high five. Not frickin’ earned, beeeatch.
The Completely Clueless
Getting back to what I said earlier: I love the new people. That I might have new tribe members? Awesome. There’s a learning curve, we’ve all been there.
But, please. Don’t:
- Look at me like I’m a horrible person for wanting my corresponding treadmill/rower/floor space number. There’s a reason I picked the one you went to, I like being in the corner. That comes from experience of having been there. I know that number 11 is the place to be. When I point this out, don’t huff off. Not my fault you didn’t listen to the pep talk when they tell us to stay with the number we start with.
- Put your weights back in my spot where they don’t belong, making me have to run around and find space simply because you don’t want to walk around to where you grabbed yours.
- Steal weights, realize that they are too heavy, and then leave them unused at your station. Those could have been mine, but I was cool letting you take them, as you got there first. Now I have to climb over people to get them, and I might drop them on someone’s head. Someone I like. Who is not you.
These are just some of my (not so) lovely gym peeps. But my gym rocks, so I tolerate it. And get to write about it.
Ok, honestly? Half the time, I’m not even paying attention. Too busy trying to get in shape for the Halloween costume I ambitiously took to wearing this year (tutus can be unforgiving).
But just know that the other half of the time? I can’t help getting irritated.
And in case you go, I’ll be the crotchety old hag in the corner.