happy birthday

Yesterday, I peeked into a world which alternately fascinates and horrifies me. I gained entree, via the begging of my friend, to the fitness world of the beautiful people. I shall never be the same.

It should be noted that I am, indeed, a workout snob, but the environs don't necessarily bother me, provided there is ample, useful equipment for me and not just a sea of useless nautilus machines and calf strengthening stations. In fact, most of the better gyms in which I've trained, would probably not be suitable for the "clean" person, who goes to the gym to get some cardiooohh in (must be said in valley speak) and work the 5lb hand weights for a bit, to get "toned".

Anyway, I found myself there yesterday, looking at the random, edgy, brushed metal features on the walls, the blonde wood cabinets, cleverly arranged gym towels and strategically placed foliage. All around me there were small people. They were both short and thin, all of them. The women had on cleverly matching gym outfits, full faces of makeup, earrings and smartly coiffed "workout hair". They diligently rode the reclined stationery bikes, marched on the elipticals and stood idly around kibitzing and checking themselves out in the mirrors, which lined the walls.

Some of the men, with their track pants and logo tees, hoisted the 40lb. dumbbells, grimacing to show the ferocity of their work. They pulled the triceps extension down with bad form and flailed their bodies around as they did bar curls with weight that was both pointless and too heavy for their strength levels. I also noticed that the boys did a regular inventory and survey of the other Y chromosomes in the area, clandestinely measuring cocks as they strutted around the "weight" area, which should actually have been called the "nautilus bullshit" area. Because when "exercising" so ineffectively, one must find another means for comparison in order to woo the matchy-matchy girls in the cardio section.

All of this mayhem, coupled with the droves of people who literally ran into me as I warmed up on the ergometer, made me want to hurt. At one point, I actually began throwing elbows on the sly, hoping to catch an errant quadricep so that I could inflict a dead leg on it's vacant owner. It was at that moment where the snobbery reared it's head and I realized that I am not a beautiful gym person.

I, with my boardshorts and wifebeater tanks and aptitude for actual athleticism, belong in the gym that looks dingy to the outsider. The one where punk and hard rock are blasting from the speakers and nary a "hand bike" is in sight. I belong in the gym that the beautiful people would scoff at because there are not long, neat rows of retardedly complicated nautilus machines and where one can regularly hear the pounding of bumper weights as they crash back down onto the olympic platforms in the corner. I belong at a gym where they not only have a glute-ham raise, but where the patrons actually know what to do with it.

I have recovered from the irritation of the whole experience and come to a realization. A beautiful person in life I may be, a beautiful gym person, I never will. Thank the stars above for that.