Yellow Mustard Blog

So, I've tried to resolve to go to the gym every day of the week. This was born out of college weight-gain, my upcoming wedding, and a strong appetite for self-abuse. The only problem is, I HATE going to the gym.
Don't get me wrong, I like to work out. I enjoy running and walking and even the other weird activities that can only be born out of a gym...like endlessly climbing stairs, pedaling a bike in place, or rowing an imaginary boat to nowhere. It's the environment of the gym that I loathe. I don't like the people. I don't like the music. I don't like the smell. I don't like the grimey, used equipment that reeks of sweaty beef jerky. I hate how all the TV's are tuned to the worst shows, like "All-American Bass Fishing Olympic semi-finals" or a food-dehydrator infomercial. And the worst part is, I actually WATCH these shows and become interested in them. I'll stay on the treadmill for longer than I planned, just because I have to see if Billy Bob can beat his unbroken record of catching a bass fish in under 5 hours.
Probably worse than the bad television are the ridiculous outfits that people wear to the gym, like coordinating spandex unitards with matching socks. What the hell?! Since when did I have to look like Step Aerobics Barbie before I drench myself in sweat? At my gym, girls wear hoop earrings and makeup. They carry their purses around with them. The guys wear shirts that are literally two pieces of string and about 2 inches of fabric...just enough to cover their abs, but not their nipples. GOD FORBID they cover those things up. The guys have pecs the size of small infants, but their legs are about as thick as my wrist. The girls do 400 repetitions with 3lb weights and spend the rest of their time discussing the carb counts in beer. Guys do 1 rep with 300lbs weights then sit on the bench and gasp and sweat for 20 minutes.

Every time I go, it's like watching a documentary on bizarre human behavior. People walk into the gym locker rooms as intelligent, discerning individuals... but when they come out, they have the gym look: the glazed over eyes, the scowling face and the brain washed mind that says it's acceptable to wear head-to-toe pink lycra or run on the treadmill while curling 20's.
Today was no different. The girl next to me on the stairmachine has it set so high that she is literally hanging onto the rails so she doesn't fall off. Maybe you burn a lot of calories clinging to a piece of cardio equipment, but I always thought actually moving your legs or arms was a better idea. And then of course, there's that greasy guy next me on the treadmill, who insists on talking, even though I have my headphones on and I'm running so fast I can't complete sentences. I hate when I'm hit on at the gym. I know some girls might find this flattering, and perhaps in some cases it can be. But there is a big difference between a nice guy who is genuinely interested in you and Mr. Robo-erection, the guy that thinks it's acceptable to hit on any person in any environment, including burn victims in a trauma ward. Here are a few sure-fire signs to discern between a nice guy that likes you and a creepy guy that likes anything warm and flesh-colored:

Sign #1. He hits on you even when you're grotesquely unattractive
Sign #2. He hits on every female within his line of vision and even objects that may look vaguely female, like a lamp with a coat draped over it.
Sign #3. He talks to you even if you are desperately trying to avoid eye contact with him.

In my case, all the warning signs were there. I was at the gym at 6:30AM, with no makeup, red-faced and dripping in 32 oz of my own sweat. mmm. I basically looked like a newly born albino baby, or even, a mexican hairless rat that had been fished out of a pool. I'm not exaggerating. The guy opens up with a brilliant "Wow, you're going to break that machine!" (Great...I'm assuming he means that as a compliment, but any idiot knows you never even INSINUATE that any object a girl is standing, sitting or leaning on will break. The girl will assume you mean she weighs the same as a Volkswagen Beetle, and that you are an asshole).
The guy follows up his first bomb with the ever-popular, "So, do you go to Penn State?"
Do I go to Penn State? But, how could you tell?! Could it have been from the "PENN STATE" written in tall letters across the butt of my shorts !? Noo! And what are the odds, my meatheaded friend, that I could be in a gym in San Diego on a Tuesday in October and still simultaneously be attending PSU?

I told the guy that I didn't actually go to PSU, but that I had stolen the shorts off a Tri-delt during a bar fight. He looked very confused and a little scared and my icy cold heart convulsed with pity.
"No, hahha, not really...I did in fact go to Penn State, as my shorts have pointed out."
The guy looks relieved and launches into another great question, "So, did you have to get up early to come here?" At this point my fist clenches in rage, but I am able to contort my hand into a friendly pointing gesture and stab gaily at the clock in front of us.
"Its 6:32AM...the sun isn't even up yet."
"Yeah. I know!"
"So...it's safe to assume...given that I'm here now, and it's very early..."
"Yeah it is!"
"Yes, yes it is...so clearly, I had to wake up even earlier to get here."
"Yeah, that sucks."
"I'm going to tear out your throat with my bare hands."
"What?"
"Nothing!"

I put my headphones back on as a subtle, friendly gesture that this guy repulsed me and I wanted him to stop talking. He of course, continued to chat with me and all I could do was occasionally nod and pretend to be enthralled with the Good Morning America.
"Sorry, I really can't keep talking...Al Roker is about to show his recipe for spicey fish stew. I really need to see this."