Gym Rats

Biceps are bulging, abs are glistening, weights are hitting the floor, and the stench of sweat is imminent. Welcome to the gym. While most people are there to lose weight, destress, or get ripped, others are there to people watch (which I can't stand). I go to a gym in the gay part of town, because I know I won't be bothered or eye-molested by douchy men that look like the Cake Boss. When I go to the gym, I like to be left alone. Don't talk to me. No I don't care how much you press. No I don't want a workout buddy. I am coming here to listen to my ipod and run, and maybe lift a little bit of weights. Notice my noise cancelling headphones? I don't want to hear you.

When I first moved to Seattle, I was elated to find an apartment that had its own gym. Finally, an end to all of the Cake Boss madness. But I quickly became disappointed once I began using it. Someone is always on the one treadmill, and when I finally do get on it, there is always someone glaring at you from the elliptical because you got on the treadmill before they did. It's a vicious cycle.

However, the absolute worst part of the gym at my apartment are the people that use it. The people who use this gym are there because they are bored and need a victim to annoy.

There's a guy named Equation that lives here. His real name is just as quirky as the mathematical term I gave him, but I'll be nice and protect his identity. He has a huge, green tattoo on his face (okay blew it) and always tries to strike up a conversation. The first time I met him, I was on mile 5 on the treadmill, out of breath, and dripping with sweat. And when I say dripping, I mean my ears and elbows were sweating. He thinks it's an opportune time to ask me if I liked Rachel Maddow and tried striking up a political conversation. Does it look like I want to discuss politics right now? Then he proceeded to ask if I would like to go out and watch a movie with him, after we went home and showered of course. "I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that," I responded. Time to go. He just made working out super awkward.

But the worst person that uses the gym is The Singer. I have no idea what his real name is, but he is the most irritating man I've ever encountered in my life. I love music with all my heart and soul, but he makes me want to gouge my eyes out, light myself on fire, and jump off the top of a sky scraper when he starts humming. Don't even get me started on what I want to do when he starts singing.

I was in the gym, running to my tunes, and this guy is on the bike, humming really loudly. Even his humming is tone deaf. I clear my throat and obviously turn up the volume on my ipod, hoping he'd get the hint. He doesn't. He closes his eyes and starts humming louder. I have noise cancellation headphones on, but I could still hear the notes he was inventing. Then he unleashes the beast: he starts belting his heart out, eyes closed, hand motions accentuating the words he was inventing (he didn't know the words to his song), and I thought I saw tears too but it could have been sweat. And he doesn't stop! It's only him and I in this tiny gym and I really wanted to say, "Hey! Do you mind?" But I didn't want to be rude. I wish I would have said something much worse. But instead, I ran one mile, then jumped in my car and went to my other gym in Capitol Hill. He was still screeching when the door closed behind me.

And I thought the guy that smelled like poop at my old gym in Gig Harbor was bad. I guess it was equally irritating, just making my nose bleed instead of my ears.

Thank goodness I didn't cancel that Capitol Hill gym membership.

At my gym in Capitol Hill, men are busy looking at each other, instead of me, while I happily do my workout like a fly on the wall (remember, gay part of town). It's nice, really. However, now the tables have turned. Where I was busy trying not to make eye contact with anyone at other gyms (for fear they would mistake it as a conversation starter (e.g. "Oh where in Hawaii are you from?" "Tacoma")), I actually want to watch people at this gym.

Just yesterday, I saw the most bronze gay man I have ever seen in my life. Men go tanning, I get that. But this man was Lady Gaga-Bronze (see above)- an inhuman pigment that even the orangest high school cheerleader will never achieve, even after a stage four melanoma diagnosis. Not only was he bronze, but he was ripped to perfection, had emo bangs, and was watching himself in the mirror very intensely as he did his bicep curls and chest flies. I thought I was watching an SNL skit unfolding.

He had on boyshort spandex and his butt actually looked like it had implants. I've never seen such thing as a perky butt, but it indeed exists. It was actually pointing at me! In my head, I awarded him the True Gym Rat award, which would be a gold trophy of his lifted butt. His wife beater looked like the upper half of a banana hammock, all string, criss-crossing his bronze chest. He pouted his lips out as he switched from curls to chest flies and back. I could just hear, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts!" Congrats, Right Said Fred. You actually made a song that applied to someone in real life. I wish I had a video camera. He was hilarious. I was almost tempted to ask if he wanted to borrow my lip plumping gloss too, but then I remembered I didn't want to talk to anybody.

Who would have thought so much entertainment could come from such a simple activity as running on a treadmill? I have a knack for finding myself in strange situations, but I can't complain - I'd have nothing to write about if I didn't.

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but running outside beats being in the gym with the rats.