The fire-bomber. Let’s admit it. Sometimes, with all that moving around and squatting and downward-dogging, we work some gas loose. Polite people hold it in or go to the machine in the corner. Some will let it slip. Propriety demands that you ignore it, unless you’re dealing with a repeat offender. In this case, I firmly believe a nasty look, moving to another area, and even waving your hand in front of your nose is perfectly acceptable.
If the problem persists, I like to recruit other gym goers in the public shaming by giving them a disgusted glance and a nod in the offender’s direction. Unless of course it was me, in which case I blame it on someone else or try to recreate the sound with my sneaker.
The normal, hot guy. Some people believe he’s an urban legend, but my cousin’s friend’s sister told me she really did meet her boyfriend at the gym. I realize that, just as I am at the gym to exercise—not be hit on—he may be as well, in which case I want to respect his privacy. But dammit if he doesn’t have a great butt and the glute machine in front of the elliptical trainer has just reminded me that I am not getting any younger!
Of course, I’ve never actually met a guy at the gym, and the ones I do see generally aren’t my type. Nevertheless, a good deal of my workout is spent needlessly worrying over different ways in which the normal, hot guy might appear and approach me and what my appropriately witty and yet mildly stand-offish response would be. I wouldn’t, after all, want him thinking I’m just a girl in a sportsbra.
And yet ... my biggest fitness roadblock seems to be that once I’ve expended the energy to face all these yahoos and maneuver the obstacle course that is supposed to be a simple mind-body exercise to lift my mood and my butt, I feel I’ve earned—no, I deserve—some General Tso’s Chicken. Please pass the egg rolls. And I’ll see you, girl in the sportsbra, at AeroBoxing tomorrow.
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