Bally's Total Mental Unfitness
When nearly nobody else goes, THAT’S when I go to the gym. I don’t like to wait for other members to wrap up their sets on any particular machine or finish their use of any particular free weights; and I hate it when other members wait for me to wrap up my sets. When other members ask to “work in” between my sets, I hate that, too, but not as much. As you might’ve guessed, I tend avoid crowds. I’ll make certain exceptions for sporting, musical, and theatrical venues—which I infrequently patronize. Otherwise, in most public settings, I’d rather not be in close proximity with people I don’t know. This is particularly true at the gym.
In a perfect world, the gym would be filled with me and, at most, five other members. There’d be a guy who’s clearly stronger than me, a guy who’s clearly weaker than me, and three beautiful young women. And when it comes to “personal space,” please give me at least twice—no, three times—no, five times—the recommended distance, even if you’re a beautiful young woman—that is, unless you’re aiming to kiss me.
This one dude—he’s maybe my age—the first time I saw him? I wanted to tell him to give up. Go home. No matter how much muscle this guy put on, no woman was ever gonna get it on with him—not for free. She’d have to be blind. Really, when you’re young, that’s the whole point of going to the gym. You’re pumping iron and sweating buckets to get laid for the price of dinner and a movie and maybe a bag of popcorn. You’re here, at the gym, because you want the girl to want you—not what you can afford. (And if you’re young and gay, then all that really matters is whether or not you’re hot.) But this one dude, he’s following around this older fella. And this older fella is probably this one dude’s dad. (Let’s assume so.) Clearly this one dude’s got issues. And, sure, absolutely, as the saying goes, “It takes one to know one.”
Somehow, this one dude’s head? It seems a size too big for his body. And the expression on his face? Well. Say you’re desperately searching for your car in a filled shopping mall parking lot the size of Rhode Island on Black Friday. That’s this one dude’s baseline expression. He’s been looking for his car, years. Or say your dad smacked you upside the head with a frying pan one too many times. That’s it, that’s the expression.
This is cruel, I know. If I’d taken a photo of him, you’d understand. And, trust me, if the Ancient Greeks wrote blogs, Adonis would’ve gotten a real kick out of mocking my own Mr. Potato Head looks.
Anyway, I’m kinda really itching to ask this dude: “What’s the point? What are you here FOR? Your health? What’s that worth if nobody’s gonna love you? Go home. Turn on the tube. What you see on late night cable TV is the closest you’ll ever get to having a girlfriend.”
Today, when I get to the gym, this dude who belongs to a funhouse mirror, he’s in one of the two locker room toilet stalls. He’s pulling all the toilet paper off the massive roll in there—pulling it off and bunching it up onto the floor. With most of it on the floor, THAT’S when he leans over and starts to use it. Pulling it off the floor, my guess is, NOW he’s wiping his ass. Though, I can’t really be sure. From the stall I’m in, I can only see his Nikes and the toilet paper heaped around them. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. But, in the moment, it was an educated guess that he’d be the only dude here that would do this. I know for sure it’s him after I flush and step out of my stall and there’s his father yelling “What’re doing’?” at him. Really, it wasn’t a yell. It was more some exhausted declaration of concern. Was this dude, this dude who really shouldn’t be in this place, was he coming here only at his dad’s insistence? If wiping your ass is a challenge, just getting out of the house must be a miracle.
For two reasons, I don’t take showers at the gym.
Reason Number One: It’s a filthy gym. They’re not ALL filthy. But, here? You’ll see the cleaning crew dust the windowsills. Sometimes, they’ll vacuum—but only at your feet when you’re trying to pump iron. They’ll vacuum the carpeted track, too, but only when you’re doing laps. Yeah, the cleaning crew at this BTF? They hate you for having the time to work out. You’ll never see them wiping down anything sweaty flesh touches. And, no, they wouldn’t dare set foot inside the locker rooms.
Reason Number Two: I’m not showering in a shared space unless I’ve got something to show off. Anybody with a functioning brain is sizing up everybody else in this locker room. True, the old-timers (and there are many) don’t give a shit as to who sees the pasty and/or pudgy flesh that hangs off their skeletal frames. That, or they’re in complete denial of their obverse Adonis-hood. If they’re not here on doctor’s orders—say, to prevent a second stroke—then they’re here to stave off the inevitable. In THIS locker room, at THIS gym, it’s all about who you want to look like. That, or it’s all about who you’re relieved you DON’T look like. Otherwise, you’re oblivious; and if you’re oblivious HERE, you’re oblivious everywhere.
So I take my showers at home, where everything is much cleaner, where all the germs are mine (or Pop’s), where my birthday suit won’t be judged. (Except by me.) Before I leave the gym, though, I wash my hands. The experts, they’ll tell you to scrub time it takes to sing “Happy Birthday” twice. So I sing “Happy Birthday” (in my head, not aloud) three times. Sometimes it’s four. (I prefer the “you smell like a monkey…” version. After that, I’ll often run through “Jingle Bells,” too—the “Batman smells…” version.) And this is what I’d intended to do before leaving the BTF men’s locker room today: scrub my hands and splash the sweat off my face. I can handle driving with my sweaty clothes on for the ten minutes it takes to get back to Pop’s house.
But today, as I’m wrapping up my hand scrubbing, out comes this dude (same one I’ve been telling you about) and his dad (or whoever). They come out of the shower room. Dad’s wrapped in a towel. This dude, though, if he’s wrapped up in anything, it’s his brain fog—and THAT’S ALL. I don’t see him. I work hard not to pay attention to anybody here. I’m so disgusted by all the things I see by MISTAKE. Instead, I’m zoomed in on the lather between my hands and fingers. Let’s be crystal clear: There are ten sinks in this locker room. Ok, I haven’t counted, but ten is a pretty good guess. There might only be eight, there might be as many as twelve. Whichever, I’m using the one all the way on the left end of the long countertop. In other words, there aren’t any sinks to MY left. This buck naked dude slowly lumbers over, passing all of the other sinks NOBODY is using. He sets his keys and his razor on the counter between my sink and the next one over. He does this like he’s moving through molasses. The razor, I get; the keys, I don’t. Not unless he’s got a padlock on his locker. Then, ok. He’s standing within a half-foot of me, toweling himself off. Instead of splashing the sweat off of my face with warm water I get the hell outta there.
Somebody really needs to teach this creepy dude a lesson on PERSONAL SPACE.
Then it hits me: Even with his ugly fat head and permanent hung-over expression, this creepy dude? He’s probably a whole lot happier than I’ll ever be. Maybe he doesn’t smile, but I’ll bet he hasn’t got a whole lot to worry about. This creepy dude, unlike me, nobody’ll ever call him an asshole. They’ll forgive every idiot thing he does. But me? They’ll never forgive.
17 June 2005