I've come to tolerate many things in the gym that I would never tolerate anywhere else. I guess that tolerance has grown over time because back in the day no one would ever get away with some of the shit people get away with today. I'm talking about stuff like wonton little nerds sitting on a machine during primetime reading a book between sets like they are the only one in the gym, oblivious to the line of people waiting to use the thing. . . idiots who step in front of me while I'm in the middle of a set and block the mirror. . . people who take every pair of dumbbells from the 20s on down to some obscure corner of the gym to do walking lunges or some other useless exercise and never bring them back. . . and, as you can imagine, there's more.
Then there are the personal trainers, who are in need of a trainer themselves, who put their clients through the most ludicrous exercises that look more like circus acts that weight-training. Others marry themselves to particular protocols and simply won't budge; like the kettle bell guy in my gym. No matter what day it is, no matter what client he's training, no matter what the client's specific physicality may dictate; he gives them kettle bells. And let's not forget my all-time favorite, the Swiss ball knuckleheads who've decided to redesign the basic tenets of fitness with the mutilation of "core" exercises. And that's just the tip of the iceberg of things that piss me off. I tolerate it mostly because it's not only mildly amusing, but also because I've accepted the fact that most people don't know what the hell hardcore is anymore even of it hit them in the head, which still may happen if I get pushed too far.
And that brings me to the subject of my rant for tonight. Sweat. Some people sweat when they train, some people merely perspire, and some have this odd affliction that causes them to ooze copious fluids and drip like an old Ford with a leaky head gasket. On this particular day at LA Fitness, one such individual had just left the stair climber like Katrina had left New Orleans. The rubber mat under the machine had a such a huge puddle on it, I swear I saw fish jump out of it. And the dust it had attracted gave the piece an ambiance one would find at Typhoid Mary's house. Leaving such a humid environment in his wake, you would think the gentleman would have at least brought a towel, if not a sump pump. But, no, he opted to drip dry as he walk about the gym; wearing crocks I might add, which made a disgusting squishing sound with each step he took. The guy squished his way over to a flat bench and sat down with a splat. I was on a Hammer incline press at the time wondering if this guy was even remotely aware of the fact that he was dripping like a storm cloud all over everything he touched. But the guy was oblivious! He did three or four sets of some kind of strange thing with a dumbbell that required him to lie flat with his feet up on the end of the bench. When he was done, he just walked away leaving a huge frothing wet spot where his soaked mop of hair had met one end of the bench. Well, his valet was apparently not working that day and neither he nor anyone else wiped down the bench. It just glistened for a while until a stringy annoying, balding, guy in his mid-fifties, who was reading a copy of Rich Dad Poor Dad between sets on a shoulder press machine that I wanted to use but couldn't because he "only had one more left", walked over to it.
Well, the guy with the financial impediment hadn't noticed the gigantic wet spot on the bench where his head was going to go if he ended up using the thing even remotely in accordance with its design. He went about finding a camber bar, a few small plates, and the end clips to hold them on. As he sat on the opposite end of the bench assembling his barbell for what would ultimately be some brutal sets of skull crushers, I began to realize that he had no idea that when he laid back he was going scuba diving. So, since the guy who left the puddle and the guy about to swim in it were both perceived as the enemy, I took an extra long break between sets so I could watch the punking unfold. Apparently Robert Kiyosaki's economics had distracted this gym reader enough for him to totally ignore anything behind him. He hoisted all 35 pounds of cambered bar to his chest, sat down and laid back with a splash. He might as well have stuck his head in an electrical socket the way he snapped back up and threw his weight to the floor in front of him. He simultaneously raised a hand to his bare pate and looked at what it had just encountered and looked like he was going to throw up, while I, of course, was cracking up.
Now, I surely could have said something to prevent the scalp splattering, but, you know, it was just deserts. I left the gym happy knowing that just maybe the people who annoy me are starting to annoy each other. Hopefully they will all leave and go to Planet Fitness -- or a library-- where they belong, and leave the gym to people who work out with some reverence. Every now and then-- not often enough unfortunately-- justice is served, and this was one of those times.
Subscribe to RxMuscle on Youtube
